one jump ahead
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: They say he's the king of the street rats, that when you fall in with him, you'll never go hungry again, that he has a harem of women from all over the world who will trek for miles and miles to share his bed. Emma doesn't really know about that harem thing, but the "never go hungry again" bit is enough to catch her interest after (at least most of) a life on the street. CS AU.
1. act one

**A/N**: It's CS AU month over on tumblr, and I've had this idea rummaging around in my head for a while now, so I finally just said "oh why not" and began working on it. After nearly 20k words (and counting), I am somewhat regretting that decision. Apologies to Walt Disney and _Aladdin_ for the title and the part you'll surely recognize. This has three parts.

.

.

Emma wasn't so much abandoned as _lost_ — in the vaguest depths of her memory, so far down that she's not sure it isn't a dream, she recalls her parents being loving, a beautiful woman with black hair and a dashing man with a brilliant smile always directed at her. She remembers wearing lovely dresses, and she remembers a dark-haired woman with a cruel smirk reaching out to her in the dead of night.

Or it might just be her oldest nightmare.

As far as she knows for sure, she's been on the streets since she was a babe in no one's arms, semi-raised in both a brothel and a church but refusing to commit to either, and by the time she's fifteen, she's decided that the freedom of the streets is worth the insecurity. It's a big enough city to get lost in, which works in her favor when she picks the pocket of the district's magistrate and is forced to relocate to the other side of it.

There are a lot of things he'll tolerate — after all, in his neck of the city, the red lights are always lit for him — but "having a dirty little urchin's hand in my pockets is the last damn straw," and Emma knows when it's time to run.

The district she finds herself in is mysteriously (or maybe not) poorer, being the market district; only the lower denizens of the merchant class will deign to live here, while the brothels are always stuffed right full of people spending money like water, but that means there are more places to hide. The district's got a lot of empty spaces around in the buildings that maybe aren't so safe to sleep in, but there's not much in her life that's ever been, strictly speaking, _safe._

The problem really is that she hasn't figured this part of the city out — under cover of the red lights and haze of ale, picking pockets was definitely the way to survive, but in markets people expect that sort of thing and keep tighter fingers on their purses — and so, after a few days, she's resorted to begging and still feels like she'll die of starvation soon.

Which is why she plucks the apple off the cart.

It's really not much, but she likes apples and they're _right there_, but the merchant sees her because _of course _he does because her luck has gone south of hell this past week and so she isn't surprised. She is, however, frightened, albeit against her will.

"D'you think you're bein' sly, street rat?" the man growls at her, clutching her wrist tight between his fingers, holding her up so she's on the tips of her toes. "Think y'can just snitch an apple off my cart without my knowin' about it? That's my _livelihood,_ that is."

"I'm sorry," she says fervently, "but I haven't eaten — "

"I hear that all the time 'round these parts," he sneers. "You think I care a whit?"

"Well… yes?" she tries, because she's found that sometimes that works. It doesn't this time.

The merchant laughs out loud and pulls her up higher. "You know the penalty for theft, _li'l girl?_ You steal somethin' of someone else's, you lose the hand what did it."

It's not an empty threat, not at all, and she goes pale. "Please, I didn't mean — "

"I don't care what you meant or didn't mean," he scoffs, full of mockery that makes her blood boil. But, where she is right now, inches off the ground and staring into the eyes of a man with no sympathy in his soul and half-starved already, there's nothing she can do but watch in horror.

But then:

"Julia!" a voice shouts, and the merchant turns, even if she doesn't, but before she can say or do anything else, a boy — or maybe something closer to man — appears out of the crowd, running toward her. He's dressed impeccably, high-class as they come, and he's looking right at her. "Gods above, I've been looking _everywhere_ for you!" he cries, chest heaving as he gasps even though his face doesn't look particularly winded. His expression and tone change sharply when he turns to the merchant. "What do you think you're doing?" he snaps coldly, condescending as the clothes on his back suggest he'd be.

"She was stealin' from me," the man replies, although he doesn't sound quite so confident or cruel now.

"You just can't resist an apple, can you?" the boy asks her, tone once again kind, if exasperated, but then shifts to winter when he turns away from her. "She's my sister, and I would suggest you unhand her _immediately."_

"Sister?" he scoffs, looking between them. "You don't look very much alike." If it's possible, the boy's expression grows even colder.

"Yes, because princes never bed more than one woman over their lifetimes," he says, voice dripping with scorn. The man looks uncertain, but with a growing hint of horror. "You know the penalty for cutting royal skin?" he goes on darkly, stepping closer. "The hand that held the knife _gets_ the knife. When our father hears about this, you'll be wishing you'd never been born."

"I'm sorry, my lord," the merchant begs, eyes going wide as he finally releases her and she stumbles against the boy. "What was she doing here anyway?"

He sounds genuinely — and _deliciously_ — terrified. The boy glances at her with a deadpan sort of reprimand.

"She does this," he answers flatly, "sneaks out _all_ the time, gets me into trouble when I have to run out and find her before Grandfather finds out she's run out on one of her lessons."

"Says the one who doesn't have to study _tea ceremony_," Emma mutters petulantly, figuring that her total silence is probably getting suspicious; after all, the boy can't keep up the lie if she's just deadweight. "If I had classes like _you_ did, I'd never leave."

The boy rolls his eyes. "You _could_ talk to Father about it, you know," he snaps at her, although much softer than any of his snapping at the merchant. She replies with a sneer because she can't come up with a great response at the moment, panic still _way_ too fresh. He turns from her and back to the apple-seller. "I'm taking her home," he growls, "but don't think for _half a second_ I'll forget this."

_"Please,_ my lord," the merchant says, actually getting on his knees, "I meant no harm."

"Liar," Emma hisses, and the boy crosses his arms.

"She's right, you know," he says. "You had _every intention_ of cutting off her hand without even giving her a fair trial. I've no sympathy for wretched _peasants_ with delusions of grandeur," he adds disdainfully; she _had_ thought he was just someone who'd seen her in trouble and decided to come to her rescue, that this 'prince' thing was a farce, but after hearing _that_ sentence, with such _royal _disgust… she wonders why the hell a _real_ princeling would be saving her, unless he thought she was someone else.

"Please, my lord, I'll do anything," the merchant cries, taking the boy's leg (which is immediately wrenched away from him with a look of pure revulsion). "Here, my lady, you can have the apple, _please_just don't cut off me hand."

"An _apple?"_ the boys sneers, and Emma kind of hates him a little for it. "You really think an _apple_ is sufficient apology? I should add that to the list of the crimes, such an egregious _insult."_

"Here, take a bushel, _anything,_ it's all I have to offer, _please."_

The boy appears to mull it over for a moment, before rolling his eyes. "If a bushel of apples is all you've got to apologize for nearly _mutilating_ a _princess,_ you really aren't worth the trouble, are you?" he mutters, sighing. "Fine, I'll take it. I suppose we can have apple pie tonight."

He snatches the bushel offered with quick movements, so as to avoid any chance of touching the merchant, and props it up between one hand and his hip, taking her arm in the other. "Come along, Julia," he grumbles, "I think you've caused enough trouble for one afternoon."

She huffs, but follows, and they stalk away, leaving the merchant leaning against his cart, hand over his chest, breathing heavily in relief.

Emma isn't sure if she wants to explain herself or not — being mistaken for a princess is really a hell of a turn on her luck, and she _does_ love apple pie — but after a couple of streets, the boy pulls her through an alley and turns to her with a huge, mischievous grin.

"You know, I'm really proud of that," he crows, glancing to the basket. "Never would've thought I could've got a whole _bushel_ out of the man."

"Where did you learn to act like that?" she asks, gaping at his audacity. The boy brushes it off.

"I pride myself on my range of talents," he replies airily, and leans forward a bit. "Now, manners matter, love," he says, a bit reproachfully but mostly teasing, and she rolls her eyes.

"Thank you, kind stranger," she relents, but with as much mockery as she can inject into the words. He doesn't seem to mind, setting the basket down and holding out a hand.

"Does the lovely lady have a name?" he asks, sending heat flooding to her face — since when was she a 'lovely lady' and since when did attractive boys pay that sort of attention to her? She hides it with a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed tilt of her head.

But she still tells him, "Emma," and takes his hand, which he brings to his mouth to kiss the back of. She tries not to be obviously _seduced._

"Emma," he repeats, as though trying it out, "what a beautiful name. Mine is Killian, if you were wondering."

She freezes.

_Killian?_

She's heard of Killian — every kid out on the streets has, he's the bane of every lawman's existence, they call him King of the Street Rats — but she has no idea how much of what she's heard about him is myth and how much is fact. According to rumor, he has a crew over a hundred strong of urchins who idolize him like a _god,_ kids he's taken in and made into his own sprawling family, that he's the best thief in the whole country, that he has a harem of women from all over the world — even from places so far as Agrabah and the Sun Kingdom — who will trek miles and miles just to share his bed, that he was raised on a pirate ship, that he was raised in a castle, that he was raised atop Mount Olympus itself.

At her stunned silence, he grins wider. "I see you've heard of me," he says, with a bit of arrogant deviousness.

The only thing she can think of to say — and which she immediately feels _unbelievably_ stupid for saying — is "Do you really have a harem of women from Agrabah?"

He laughs so hard he has to lean against the wall for support. She covers her face with both hands.

"I didn't mean to say that, that was stupid."

It takes him several minutes to stop cackling. "All right, that's one I hadn't heard, but I think that's the best. Unfortunately," he goes on, wiping his eyes and trying with some success to contain his laughter, "no, I don't. You offering to start one?"

She glares at him, but he just continues to grin, looking at her like he's having the time of his life. "I'm not from Agrabah," she replies coolly, raising an eyebrow, a gesture he mimics. "And in spite of the fact that I grew up half in a brothel, I'm not a harem wench."

"A brothel?" he repeats, sounding interested, and it occurs to her what that implies.

"Not as in — I mean, I wasn't a prostitute," she says hastily, and he smirks. "But there's not many places will take in a kid left on the streets, you know?"

His expression sobers up a lot at that. "Yeah, I know that," he mutters softly, now watching her with a strange sort of curiosity. "You have anywhere to sleep tonight?"

She shrugs and replies, "More or less," because she's scouted out a couple of abandoned buildings and houses with leftover bedding. He gives her a completely unbelieving look, and she sighs in frustration.

"You have anywhere _safe and warm_ to sleep tonight?" he asks, crossing his arms. She shrugs again.

"Not really, I guess," she admits. "But it's not like — "

"Now you do," he interrupts, picking up the basket and once again taking her hand. She stumbles along with him in surprise, but her pride isn't loud enough to make her shove him away and insist she's fine on her own.

After all, they say that once you fall in with the King of the Street Rats, you'll never go hungry again, and she's too hungry to pass up an opportunity like this.

.

The house he takes her to is one she hasn't seen before, tucked away from the square in a surprisingly nice area, a little more upscale, what the businessmen too snobbish to live in the square deem sufficient, and they slip in a back door and up a bunch of creaky stairs — it seems abandoned, except for the other squatters — and all the way up to the large, open attic.

There's hammocks hanging from the rafters and a big table — although where he found a spare table is beyond her — and scattered around the whole place is a bunch of kids, or the debris of them that says some are out and about the city at the moment. Maybe 'over a hundred' was exaggerating, but there's definitely a lot of them, all currently staring at her.

"Everyone," Killian declares loudly, "Emma. Emma… everyone." He says it like he hadn't really thought the rest of that sentence through, and winces a bit after, but covers it up by raising the basket. "Look at what she got for us!"

There's a rush of chattering kids coming to clean the basket dry, with Killian snatching the first apple off the top; when he sees that she's completely overwhelmed and probably not going to stop panicking internally before the apples are gone, he sidles up to her and holds it out. She turns to him, startled and blinking fast.

"You'll get used to it," he tells her quietly, winking, and the way he says it is so _certain_ it makes her blanch: he says it like she's already part of the family and going to stay that way.

Like he'll never let her get left alone again.

"I don't…" she starts faintly, but he rolls his eyes.

"I know," he says, taking her hand and forcibly placing the apple in it. "You've never had a family, you don't know how to do this. Like I said," he goes on, already starting to walk away, "you'll get used to it."

.

After a while, she does.

.

They have several hideouts, as she discovers, that they bounce around whenever someone discovers where they're living now; the entire thing, every last scrap the group owns, can be packed up in ten minutes or less, and they can be gone within a quarter-hour of finding out they've been found. (They leave the tables behind.)

Killian, it turns out, is a hell of a leader, divvying up the responsibilities on a calendar he's stolen from who-knows-where: each day, there's two people set to cook (which, he explains, initially could have been anyone but has since dwindled to the handful of people he can trust to produce something edible without burning the city down), three set to cleaning and organizing (because he refuses to live in filth and instills that same tendency in all of them after a while), three on "muck duty" (involving the chamber pots, and by far the least desirable job in the history of, well, everything, but in a show of solidarity he appears to frequently regret, Killian doesn't exempt himself from that one), and then mostly everyone else on "acquiring" necessary objects.

Even this, he organizes — some people are set to steal clothes and fabric for hammocks or blankets or other assorted necessities, a lot on food from various places (he's divided a map of this and the bordering two districts into "patrol sections"), some on scouting duty (scoping out new hideouts), some on miscellaneous pick-up (things that don't fit into other categories, like firewood and kitchen utensils and tables). The point, he explains, is so people won't figure out they're all working together, or be able to predict when one person will be in one place.

It works _magnificently,_ but still, when she gets to know him better, she teases him relentlessly for it.

(The first time she does, it gets her put on muck duty, but then he figures that he teases her enough and so it's really just fair.)

It's been almost two years since he picked her up, although she swears it can't possibly have been that long, and she honestly can't recall ever being happier or, strangely enough, ever feeling more free. She'd always thought that being alone was how independence worked, but Killian's system and way of life — even with his ridiculously rigid scheduling — is exhilarating and empowering. Maybe, she thinks, it's escaping the law that's the thing.

Or maybe it's just Killian.

Even though she determinedly thinks of him as a friend (with decreasing success), no one could pretend that he isn't attractive; at nineteen, he's developed a scruffy style, with short, messy hair and perma-stubble, even though he's maintained his habit of dressing far above his station (one of the now-many things that makes her certain he was royalty — or at least high nobility — before he was on the street) and favors black clothes and red vests, and at some point, he'd broken into a tailor's shop after-hours to steal a couple pairs of trousers for the kids going through puberty and found a long leather coat that he would now only part with over his dead body.

His mischievous nature has only gotten worse, and he's really become a full-on _rogue_ — she hears what they say about him, and agrees: he's a hero to the people he loves, but a villain to those he doesn't. She's seen him kill a guard that struck one of the younger kids, he has absolutely no qualms about who he steals from so long as none of the group have a connection to them, he'll cheat men out of their last copper piece at dice, and his philosophy is, if you're fool enough to fall for one of his cons, you deserve it.

But to them, he's something between their god and their father — if there isn't enough to feed everyone, he's the first to give up his portion, he makes sure everyone is properly clothed in winter and there's enough blankets to go around, he's strict but fair when something goes wrong, but never cruel, and he'd sell his soul for the least of them.

He's magnetic, and impossible to escape.

She's deeper in his thrall than everyone else; but then, she spends more time with him than everyone else.

She doesn't notice (or, well, doesn't admit to herself that she's noticed) that she always seems to get put on the same duty or in the same district as Killian.

She _does,_ however, notice when the older ones — both in age and time spent with him — start calling her _Queen._

.

Emma tries to convince herself she isn't jealous of the way other girls look at him, or of the way he flirts with them, all gallant and unbroken eye contact and apparently-immediate devotion. Because he _is_ her friend — her _brother_ — and even she knows that sisters aren't jealous when their brothers flirt with other girls.

But this is a _little_ much, and even her skill at denial can't pretend it's anything else.

This house was completely abandoned (for good reason, honestly), but has a lot of rooms that still have questionable beds, which had delighted everyone and, by popular opinion, outweighed the threat of falling through the floor to an untimely death, and Killian had — apparently unintentionally — ended up with his own.

Which he is now in.

With someone else.

A _strange_ someone else, someone else he'd come in with, laughing and stumbling drunk, a girl with red hair — objectively pretty, although Emma and Emma's jealousy find her horribly ugly — a girl who is _absolutely definitely_ in his bed.

She is _seething,_ and everyone can see it, and everyone knows why.

She is also drinking heavily from the bottle of whiskey she bought when he came in and absolutely refusing to admit anything to anyone.

In this haze, it seems like a great idea to retaliate in kind, although she's certain he won't understand why it's retaliation or why he's supposed to be offended, and so she grabs Victor — who has a good claim to being Killian's best friend — by the shirt, drags him into a room, and tries to kiss him.

He pushes her away in such horror that it stings her to the bone.

"What is it?" she cries, staggering back against the wall.

"Look, Emma, you're…" he trails off, looking her up and down in a becoming-familiar way, "but listen, I can't."

She rolls her eyes. "What, you think of me as a sister or something?"

Vic laughs several times in increasing hysteria. "You know, I would _love_ to think of you as a sister but that's not really possible with you," he says desperately, and the whiskey makes her frown at that — since when does Vic not like her? She's always gotten along pretty well with everyone, and she spends a lot of time around him and he's never had a problem with her. "I mean," he goes on, breathing hard, "you…" and trails off again, indicating to her.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" she asks defensively, and he swallows.

"Listen, Emma, I would _love_ to sleep with you, you have _no idea_," he starts, but before she can ask him why he pushed her away then, he goes on, "but I _really_ wouldn't love for Killian to tear my throat out for doing it."

"Oh, what does he care?" she snaps, and then changes tack. "If you want something, Victor," she whispers, running her hand up the back of his neck and leaning in close, "you should take it."

He _actually_ whimpers.

"I can't, I _really_ can't, he'll _kill_ me. He's my best friend, I can't betray him like that."

"He won't kill you," she sneers, rolling her eyes. "He won't even care — " Vic barks out a breathy, slightly hysterical laugh that she ignores, instead trailing a hand down his chest " — but if it makes you feel better, I won't tell if you don't."

It isn't even the whiskey, really — Vic is hardly ugly — even though she's never been able to think of him sexually, she can do it if it serves her purposes here. In fact, up close like this with her hands all over him, she kind of already does.

He squeezes his eyes shut and, with what looks like _deep_ regret and _extreme_ difficulty, pushes away from her and the wall, muttering something about _that bastard owes me_. "I'm serious, Emma, he'll _murder_ me. He would just _know_ and he would kill me slowly and painfully and I can't do it."

And then he bolts out of the room (walking a bit awkwardly), leaving her lonely and confused and increasingly _pissed off_.

"Fine," she says to no one, "I'll get someone else."

.

She lands on Nathan, an older boy who's a new addition and hasn't really meshed into the group well yet (or maybe he wouldn't at all, he doesn't seem suited to their lifestyle); he's eyed her up several times before and doesn't care if Killian would, for some reason, kill him for touching her like Vic seems to think.

Even if she hadn't been drunk, she doesn't think it would have been very good. Nathan is the arrogant sort, a little selfish and impatient and although he _is_ a good kisser, he doesn't really bother to be that good at anything else. It's not her first — there were boys working the brothel, too, and some were cute and she'd been adventurous and experimental — but it _has_ been over a year, and while it's not the _worst_ sex she could imagine having, it's not really great sex either.

She wishes Vic hadn't panicked; everyone she knows who's shared his bed claims he's a good lay.

On the other hand, she's not really sure she could get _that_ into revenge sex anyway. It probably would have sucked no matter what, because she really wants it to be Killian and she _really_ doesn't want to want that.

At the very least, Nathan doesn't cuddle and although they share a bed, he leaves her alone.

.

Breakfast has long passed and the crew is actually gathering for lunch — _now_ Nathan decides to be clingy and sit right up next to her, _of course_ — before Killian shows up, staggering to the table and collapsing in a seat with his head on his arms. A couple of the kids snicker, but he doesn't even bother to glare at them.

"What time is it?" he mutters, voice muffled against the wood.

"Little before noon," Vic replies, and he groans. "Looks like you had a good night."

"I am never drinking rum again."

"You said that last time. By the way, who was the redhead?" Vic asks neutrally, and Emma tries to glare a hole in his head because _oh dear gods_ is he _actually_ going to tell Killian that she came onto him last night?

Killian groans again. "I think her name is Delilah," he slurs. "I have no idea where she came from."

Vic opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, he finally seems to notice her expression, and closes it abruptly. Instead, he settles on patting him on the back lamely, which at least seems to have something of a revitalizing effect on him, and he raises his head to snatch the nearest drink to hand, some of the terrible coffee that Vic has developed an addiction for (to the point that he _buys_ it from the seller so as not to get caught as a repeat thief), and drains it in one go.

He pauses for a moment, eyes closed, and then stifles a cough. "That was a _terrible_ idea," he mutters to himself, and Vic smiles without any hint of sincerity.

"Not the only terrible idea you've had lately," he says with tense, false brightness, and leaves while Killian is still looking at him quizzically. Emma takes her cue to flee as well, although that has more to do with escaping Nathan than it really does with anything Killian is saying or doing.

He tries to catch her by the hand as she stands, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Killian look over to her and freeze; she slips away from him with a flirtatious smile.

It's probably transparent, but she's more than a bit hungover herself, and still too angry with him (and herself, for being angry with him in the first place) to care.

.

"What did you mean?" Killian growls, catching Vic in the hallway and clutching his arm in rising hungover-or-maybe-still-drunk horror. "Not the only terrible idea I've had lately?"

"Look," Vic says, holding his hands up, "I'm just saying, bringing someone home? Probably not a great thing to do."

"It's not the first time," he replies desperately, and Vic rolls his eyes.

"It _is_ the first time in a while, isn't it?" he challenges. "Most of the past year, right? Ever since you and Emma have really been, you know. Close… er. Clos_er_."

He curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair and all he can think of is the way that little shit Nathan — speaking of terrible ideas — took her hand and the way she smiled at him and _no_.

No, _gods,_ no.

"I was drunk as all hell," he says, as if _that_ means anything. Vic rolls his eyes again.

"And?"

"Shit," he hisses, turning away and then back. _"Nathan?_ Why — don't tell me…"

Vic sighs. "Man, she tried to get with me first. I mean, she was _really_ drunk, and — by the way? — you owe me something like forty-seven drinks because I had to tell her no and I am _not_ all right with that."

"Gods, I'd rather you than that bastard!" he shouts, because it's true, because at least he knows Vic treats women well — he likes getting up their skirts too much to treat them poorly — but he doesn't know much at all about Nathan and the thought of him hurting her or — shit, and she was _drunk?_

_Shit._

Victor is looking at him in mutinous resentment. "So, if this happens again, I have your permission? Can I get that in writing?"

Killian glares at him so fiercely that he takes a step back.

"Look on the bright side," he says with a weak shrug and wince, "she was jealous enough to come onto me and Nathan, that means she has feelings for you."

"That makes me sick," he mutters darkly. "Nathan, _fuck."_

"Killian, you… you really don't have the right to get mad at her for this, you know?" Vic says tentatively. "I mean, she _is_ allowed."

He sighs heavily and falls against the wall. This would be better if he wasn't so hungover he could die. Or maybe not. "I know," he grumbles miserably. "Still makes me sick."

"Because it's Nathan she had sex with?"

He winces hard at that; until now, he'd been able to avoid strictly thinking of it in those words, but hearing Vic say it just makes him want to beat his head against the wall until he somehow goes back in time from sheer blunt-force trauma. "Yeah," he replies, making a face. "You shouldn't've pushed her away, that would be better. At least I know _you're_ good to women."

When he glances up, Vic is glaring openly at him. "I hate you so much right now."

"That makes two of us," he mutters.

.

It's a couple of days before Nathan comes around again — the way he does suggests he'd been giving her some space, that he thinks she actually _wants_ him, and it kind of makes her feel bad. He catches her in the hall and crowds her in a way that he probably thinks is romantic but really just makes her uncomfortable.

"Emma, sweetheart," he says, but the pet name annoys her like it doesn't when it's on Killian's lips. "I can't stop thinking about the other night."

_Shit._

"Really?" she replies, because the only other thing she can actually think of to say is, _I would be really great with never thinking about it again_.

She and Killian haven't spoken since that night; he doesn't seem angry, not really, just kind of uncomfortable and guilty.

(He _does_ seem to want Nathan dead, though.)

"Yes," he purrs, running a hand up her side and settling high on her ribs as he leans in much closer as though to kiss her. "I know you haven't stopped thinking about it either," he continues, and he isn't wrong, just going in the completely wrong _direction._ "Hardly anyone's around, there's an empty room just over there…"

_Shit. Shit. Shit_.

She takes a deep breath and pushes his hand away from her. "Look, Nathan, I'm really not interested in another round, all right?"

"Oh, come on, Emma," he says condescendingly, like he just _knows_ she's lying, and his hand goes back to her side, this time higher, to her breast. But before she can shove him away herself, a hand grabs his wrist and they both jump.

It's Killian.

Looking absolutely _furious._

"Pretty sure she just said no, _mate,"_ he hisses, hand clutching Nathan's wrist so tightly his knuckles are white. "That means _get your bloody hands off her._"

"Since when did this have anything to do with you?" Nathan sneers coldly, and he tries to shove him away; Emma rolls her eyes, annoyance bubbling up inside her.

"I can handle this myself," she snaps, and Killian's expression flickers.

"I bloody well know that," he growls, but doesn't elaborate on why he's here then. He is _literally _shaking with anger. The only ways she can respond are in kind, or in tears.

"Then why are you getting involved at all?"

He glares at her, and Nathan scoffs disbelievingly, and increasingly wounded. "Gods, what is this, some sort of lovers' quarrel? I should've _known,"_ he mutters darkly, trying and failing to jerk his arm away from Killian. "Of course she'd be a — "

"I _dare_ you to finish that sentence," Killian cuts in, fingers tightening and voice dropping and _shit, _he's not actually going to _kill_ Nathan, is he? The last time she saw him this mad, he slit the other man's throat. Nathan may be kind of a jerk, but he doesn't deserve to _die._

"Killian, _stop,"_ she cries, grabbing him by the arm holding Nathan and pulling him away. He releases him in one convulsive motion — _gods,_ the other boy's wrist is bright red and there are clear marks where his fingers were — and steps back to let him go. It seems like Nathan realizes how nasty things just almost got for him, and so he leaves without another word, just a dirty — and more than a little hurt — glance back to her. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"Oh, I should ask you the same," he shouts, pulling away from her.

_"Seriously?"_ she snaps, jaw dropping in indignation. "You're _seriously_ going to — if I want to have _sex_ with someone, you have _no_ right to stop me!"

He growls and runs a hand over his face forcefully. "No, I get that, _fine,_ understood, I don't care," he says sharply, and it doesn't sound at all like he doesn't care, "but gods — _Nathan?_ Why the bloody hell would you sleep with _him?"_

"Why not?" she counters, and this time he runs both hands over his face and through his hair, looking like he's about to tear it out in frustration.

"He's a selfish bastard, that why!"

"Oh, and you're not?"

This brings him up short, and it occurs to her suddenly what he _actually_ meant by "selfish" — even more so when his expression shifts into something a bit vindictive and he steps closer. "Oh, I'm _anything_ but selfish, love," he says quietly, eyes raking over her in a way that's _far_ more sexual than she's ever caught him looking at her before, tongue between his teeth.

"Yeah, right," she jeers, turning to anger to avoid showing him just how _incredibly_ turned-on she is by the tone of his voice and the motion of his eyes and tongue and _gods above_. He steps in even closer, mere inches from her face.

"Is that a request to prove myself?" he murmurs, and everything in her wants to scream _yes._

Except her pride, and that's a stubborn bitch.

She narrows her eyes and says, "No," in as cold a voice she can muster, and pushes him away. He stays completely still as she storms off, and the last thing she sees before she turns the corner is him staring at the wall where she was standing a moment ago, seemingly completely drained.

.

It's Victor who comes to her, almost a week of awkward avoidance later.

"Emma, please, at least _talk_ to him," he says, and she scoffs.

"What is there to say?"

"I don't know, _anything?"_ he replies, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "He thinks you hate him, it's depressing to _watch,_ let alone listen to."

"I don't hate him," she sighs, giving up the arrogant denial. "I just… don't know what to say."

"Anything," Vic says fervently. "I mean that. _Literally, anything._ Say hello, talk about the weather, I don't _care,_ just let him know you don't hate him before I lock the two of you in a broom closet somewhere and throw away the key."

She rolls her eyes. "He would know you put me up to it," she says honestly, and he makes a face. "And anyway, _he's_ the one who flipped out on _me,_ I'm not gonna apologize for doing nothing wrong."

Victor growls in frustration as she leaves.

.

The little bastard makes good on his promise, and Emma is going to _kill_ him.

"I swear to all the gods in the world, Victor, _unlock this damn door!_" she shouts, banging on it loudly.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Killian yells beside her, also banging on the door, but Vic doesn't reply to either of them, and Emma is _very_ sure that he didn't even stay to listen. She sighs heavily and leans her forehead against the door; the tiny closet is in the back of a closed shop — he'd gotten both of them with the claim that he'd found something too big to carry on his own — and there isn't even any light coming from under the door.

It's so small that she can barely put herself in some position where she _isn't_ touching Killian, which she does out of spite and a discomfort she doesn't like feeling. She's never, _ever_ been uncomfortable with him, and she hates this recent trend.

"He's going to make us pick the damn lock," he mutters, kicking the door once again for good measure.

She sighs and sinks to the floor, but this motion causes her legs to brush up against his and they both go still. A long moment passes, before she sighs again. "You wanna go first, or me?" she asks quietly, and a little miserably. She wants to reach out and touch him, but she _can't_ and she doesn't really know _why_ and _gods,_ she wishes she had a bottle of whiskey right about now.

"What is there to say?" he replies woodenly. "I did nothing wrong."

"You know, I would call nearly killing a guy for daring to touch me when I came onto him a _little _wrong."

"You were drunk," he barks savagely. "Drunken consent really isn't consent at all."

She tries not to think about that; she'd made the decision prior to the alcohol — or at least, the decision to retaliate, if not the decision to… _Nathan_ — but he has a point.

"Moreover," he goes on darkly, "I know what the rest of that sentence was."

"It wasn't like it wasn't obvious," she mumbles, sighing. "I _used_ him," she admits finally, leaning her head back against the wall. "I think he actually had feelings for me, and I used that."

"Of _course_ he had feelings for you," Killian snaps, sounding irritated. "Half this crew is in love with you, myself included."

The silence that falls after that is long and heavy, and she struggles to wrap her head around what he just said.

_Myself included._

_Obviously,_ a tiny voice in the back of her mind (that sounds a lot like Victor) says.

The rest of her can't accept it, though. She spent fifteen years of her life being implicitly told she was unwanted and worthless — street rat, abandoned, urchin, _whore-in-the-making_ — and it's impossible that Killian — well-known around the whole city, for good and for ill, sought-after and sighed-after — would actually love or want her.

"That isn't funny," she hisses, standing up with a sort of pained energy borne from offended dismay.

"That's because it isn't a joke," he replies sharply, taking a step toward her and closing the small distance between them; she can feel his body heat and hear his heartbeat, only a hairsbreadth away, and she's raised her hands to keep him at a safe distance but now she's just kind of caressing his chest instead. She tries not to gasp audibly when his hand finds her hip and trails upward slowly, fingertips barely brushing her, until he reaches her neck and slides his hand up so it's resting on her cheek. "Have you heard what they call you?" he murmurs.

"Which one?" she asks, voice hoarse.

"Queen," he replies softly, matter-of-fact. "They call me their king and you my queen."

Should she lie and say she didn't already know that? Or admit it and claim that she, what, forgot about it or pretended it wasn't true? What she settles on is a lame, "Do they?"

"Yes," he answers dispassionately, and now his other hand is on her hip and tracing circles there and she can't really remember what they're talking about anymore.

She's breathing heavily and he's running his thumb over her lips, which part almost against her will (or at least her pride, which is becoming less and less important). He traces her bottom lip and his thumb rests there for another moment before he makes a sound in the back of his throat, a half-formed groan, and then he's kissing her like a dying man's last wish, pressing her back to the wall and running his hand through her hair, the other's fingers digging into her hip.

Her fingers tighten in his shirt and pull him closer and one of her hands has mysteriously made it into his hair and the door is _locked_ and the shop is empty _anyway_ and his knee is pushing between hers and _something else_ is increasingly pressing against her thigh and _gods…_


	2. act two

Things go well, mostly; they've worked together for most of the time she's run with him, and that doesn't change, except that he starts asking for her input in his ridiculous scheduling — which she, somewhat jokingly and somewhat honestly, says is proof that he really loves her.

They both prefer to take on the more dangerous heists themselves rather than trusting anyone else to get it right, since he knows what'll sell and is better at the actual going-in-and-getting-it part, while she's faster at picking locks and finding escape routes. She also challenges him when he's making a stupid decision and he stops her when she's not thinking before she does something and they argue over what to do and sometimes he concedes and sometimes she does, but ultimately they make each other better, one disagreement at a time, even when they're so annoyed they can't be in the same room.

(The sex is also fantastic. So there's that.)

They're not changing the world or rewriting history, but they're living and keeping everyone else alive and it _works_ and for over half a year, it seems like everything is going right. In retrospect, that should have been a sign.

It's coming midsummer when things change.

There's supposed to be some royalty visiting from some other country soon, and so the police are cracking down much harder than usual, and with a worrying degree of competence.

On the surface, they're both confident that the group will be just fine, and though they warn everyone to lay lower than usual, she assures the younger ones that it's a precaution, because there's _confident _and then there's _stupid._

But in the dead of night, she and Killian work out contingency plans, what to do if — more like _when, _they both realize but don't say — the law catches up to them. They settle on a place to gather outside the city, which routes to take through the gates and forest outside the walls, and how to split the group so that everyone will be safest.

The information gets passed around quietly in the night, with nothing written that can be found later and used against them, and it's as good as they can get it while waiting out the calm.

The storm begins with a speech given by the magistrate, a portly man in silk clothes that barely seem to hold him in and an arrogant countenance that makes even respectable people kind of want to punch him.

"As you all know," he declares loudly to the square as a whole, "we have been _cleansing_ the city in preparation for the upcoming visit of the Queen Regina. This has been a long and arduous task, and we are not finished. In particular, there exists a gang underground in one of these districts — " she glances to Killian, who glances to her " — which has been allowed to fester for _far_ too long. You may have heard of their leader, they call him their 'king'," he pauses to let the derisive laughter pass, and her hand finds his. "These criminals have had free rein over nearly half the city for almost a _decade,_ and this is unacceptable.

"And so to you, the people, I _implore_ you: give me any information you have regarding this gang and their leader that will aid us in capturing them and bringing them to answer for their crimes." He looks around to the assembled group, mostly businessmen and merchants and low nobility, all people who hate them with a passion. "How many of you have been victims of this conspiracy?" he calls out, and receives a somewhat-embarrassingly-loud cheer. "They steal and kill and take what they have not earned. The noose has been waiting for them for far too long."

He goes on, but they've heard enough, and slip away from the crowd and into the darkness of the alleys, both thinking the same thing.

"It's time to go," she says at the same time he says, "We need to get everyone ready to leave."

.

The next week, word goes around that the magistrate is _so_ pleased, that they've caught a long-time fugitive who stupidly came back around to this port — maybe he thought they'd forgotten about him — and how they're going to hang him at dawn; it's a perfect, _tangible_ warning to back up his verbal one, and something of a consolation prize for how none of their crew have been caught yet or even spotted.

Killian comes over odd when he hears about the man and gets his description, and says he needs to go see the arrest warrant that's on display (so everyone can see his crimes and agree that he should be dead) but Killian has never bothered to see who's going to be executed.

But then, he's been on-edge lately — they all have, really — and far more than everyone else, since thirty some-odd lives are resting on his ability to outrun the law. It's getting to him, and the lack of sleep isn't helping. She does what she can, but she feels like she's just staving off the inevitable.

"Are you all right?" she asks tentatively, going with him more because of the high police presence than because he wants her there — it's obvious this is something personal, and he doesn't want company at all, but even _he_ can accept that it's stupid to run around alone right now and if he _has_ to have someone with him, she's the only one he'll take.

"I'm fine," he lies tensely, and she doesn't call him on it.

They reach the square around high noon, when it's so hot she could die, and no one is on the streets, not even guards, having chosen to sleep through this part of the day rather than melt through it. He looks over the lists intently for a long moment before he finds what he's looking for.

He doesn't say anything, of course, but she can tell from the way his expression flickers into something vulnerable and then stone that it isn't good.

"What is it?" she asks quietly, and he turns away, looking at the ground and shaking his head a couple of times. She isn't prepared for the answer he gives her:

"It's my father."

She goes still. Killian has never once — not to Vic, not to her, not to _anyone_ anywhere _ever_ — said a _word_ about either of his parents or his childhood. Of course, no one really asks, because the stories are mostly the same, but even when it comes up in conversation in the dead of night and bottom of the bottle, he says nothing. He doesn't even acknowledge that he _had_ parents once.

"Your father?" is all she can croak out, and he glances at her. "You've never said anything about him."

"He's not worth the breath," he replies, in a tone that suggests he wishes he had been. She doesn't push; his mood is delicate, and while she hardly thinks he'd get violent, she _does_ think he'd push her away and go off on his own and make everything worse.

"Are you all right?" she asks again, and he looks back up to the warrant, carefully expressionless.

"No," he whispers, so soft that she can hardly hear it, almost swallowed up in the oppressive summer silence, but before she can try to do anything that might make this better he straightens and turns away. "Let's go back," he sighs. "This was a mistake."

.

She expects it, but around midnight, he's suddenly nowhere to be found. Emma shakes her head at Vic's questioning look and makes her own way through the streets to the jail.

.

It's a risk, it really is, to walk right into jail when the police are at their most obnoxious and he's a _very _wanted man, but he — he _has_ to. He can't let this go, he tried to _make_ himself let it go — if not for himself, then for the knowing concern on Emma's face — but it's eating through him like acid.

He's always wondered why his mother never wanted his father around.

He has to know if it's true.

Killian finds him in the farthest cell in the corner, and he looks almost exactly like he remembers — maybe a little grayer around the temples, but unchanged otherwise — and he looks up at the footsteps and stands sharply when he recognizes his visitor.

_"Killian,"_ he breathes, beckoning him closer with a wan smile; he ignores it. "You're here, you're — you're all right."

"Of course I am," he replies coldly. "No thanks to you."

His father sighs and hangs his head. "I'm sorry, Killian, I — " but he's in no mood to listen to platitudes.

"Yeah, you're sorry, everyone's sorry when they're looking at a noose."

"But I'm not looking at one," he says fervently, brightening. "I'm not going to…" he trails off at the way Killian's expression doesn't change. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You're not going to let your own _father_ hang."

"You tell me," he answers, waspish and calculated to sting. "I had a look at the arrest warrant for you. Quite long, that." He pauses, but the confusion doesn't fade from his father's face. He feels _sick,_ like he may actually throw up. "Most of it was rather repetitive, stealing from Lord A, stealing from Lord B, piracy under this crown, that crown, but one in particular stood out."

The confusion is replaced by careful blankness, and Killian takes a step closer, hands on the bars.

"Deny it," he says softly. "Look me in the eyes and tell me it isn't true."

He hides the _please_ under layers of cold anger.

It takes his father a moment to respond, sighing and looking down and if it wasn't true, he wouldn't even know what Killian is referring to and his blood is too cold to boil.

"It was a long time ago," is what he lands on, and his blood pressure spikes in the back of his head, fingers tightening on the bars. "You have to understand — son, I was — "

"_Don't call me that,_" he snarls, so ferociously that his father actually takes a step back.

"Please, listen to me — " he starts to implore, but Killian's self-restraint cracks and finally shatters.

"I _idolized_ you!" he shouts, completely unconcerned with whether or not he's heard. _"God!_ I _begged _her to come out with you and me, to be a _family,_ I begged her to come out with her — " he cuts himself off and stares down to the ground, and there are actually tears in his eyes; he hasn't cried in almost a decade.

"Killian, please," his father says desperately, no doubt seeing the writing on the wall. "I can redeem myself, we can be a family, you and I, just don't leave me here."

"Why shouldn't I?" he asks, dark and empty as the pit of rage opening up in his mind. This is the wrong time, the worst _possible_ time, with the magistrate's threat hanging over his head, with the escape plans that are going so much slower than they can afford, with everyone looking to him and asking him to do something, fix everything, save everyone, and they don't understand that he isn't sure he even can.

And now _this._

"I'm your father, Killian," he begs, and he shakes his head.

"I don't have a father."

There isn't any emotion in the words, even though they kill the young boy deep within, still holding out that tiny hope that Dad would come back for him. He turns and as he begins to walk away, his father tries one last appeal.

"Killian, they're going to _hang_ me — "

He glances over his shoulder, halfway back to his face.

"Good," he says, but before he can leave, he throws one last parting shot that brings him up short:

"You know, we're not that different, you and I." Killian stops, but doesn't turn around, which he takes as leave to continue. "I've heard of you, _your highness_ — " said with wounded disdain " — and your list of exploits, nearly as long as mine. You're a wanted man, aren't you? Theft, fraud, murder…"

"In the name of protecting — "

"Your crew?" he cuts him off, and it takes all of his willpower not to turn around and break him out just so he can kill him himself. "Your friends? The ones who need you? Did it never occur to you that maybe I had a crew I was willing to die for, too?"

"And my mother?" he asks softly, because that's the chink in his argument — he would never, _will _never —

"Love isn't always kind," he replies, an answer he wishes he hadn't asked for, that just makes him angrier in its inadequacy. "Nor mutual."

When Killian doesn't respond, he goes on. "You think yourself so above me, such that I deserve to hang, for crimes you commit yourself. Oh, there's one or two on my warrant that you don't share, but you _are_ my son."

"I am not you," he hisses. "It's those 'one or two' that make the difference," he snaps, walking away again, but he hears his father laugh bitterly and call after him:

"Tell that to the families of the men you've killed."

.

Emma catches him on the way out — literally, he doesn't see her and she has to grab him by the arm to stop him — and even in the low light, she can see he's a wreck.

"What happened?" she asks, increasingly worried because she's never seen him in any state even _sort _of like this before and she doesn't know what to do to fix him right now. He just looks at her, jaw clenched and breathing shallow, and he's not going to answer her here or now or maybe ever.

She does the only thing she can think of — maybe it's a terrible idea, maybe he'll push her away and demand to know why the hell she thought it could help — and kisses him.

It takes him a second to respond, but when he does, it's with startling force and ragged _need._ He shoves her back to the nearest wall and kisses her so hard she can't breathe, one hand tangling in her hair and the other on her hip, her thigh, already pulling her skirt up; she gasps when he pulls away and begins kissing her neck with the same degree of desperation as the hands tugging at her clothes. He murmurs something into the crook of her neck, but she can't even _think_ right now, let alone hear him.

She runs her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, presses her lips to his jawline and tastes salt, still wet on his cheeks.

He says it again after they're done and her hands are still shaking on his shoulders, the same sentence, a plea —

"Tell me you love me," he begs, holding onto her like he'll drown if he lets go. "Tell me you love me, _please."_

"Of course I do," she replies incredulously, and he pulls away enough to look at her; even in the darkness, the look in his eyes hurts. What the hell did his father _do_ to him? "Why would I have come out here after you if I didn't? Of _course_ I love you."

Both of his hands are on her face as he searches it for some hint of dishonesty, but when he doesn't find it, he leans forward so his forehead is resting against hers and her arms are around his neck; his hands slowly stop shaking and his breathing finally evens out, and she isn't sure what she's saved him from, and nor does she want to know.

.

A day later, everyone is finally on the move, slipping through sluice gates and under bridges and hiding in carts and jumping from roof to roof to escape the eyes of the guards placed at every city gate, and most of them have managed to get out.

But either Killian was seen at the jail visiting his father, or his father sold him out before his execution, because they find him and recognize him and he barely manages to get away for long enough to reach Emma and Vic in barely-controlled panic.

"You have to go," he says fervently, grasping her by the shoulders and pushing her forward. "_Right now_, you have to leave."

"You mean _we,"_ she says through clenched teeth, but he looks at Victor and Victor looks at her and something passes between them.

"They're not three streets behind me," he tells Vic. "Go. _Now."_

"I am not leaving without — " she starts, but he doesn't listen.

"Look, they're not going to kill me, I'm too valuable. You two? You're not as important to them," he explains in a fevered rush, looking her straight in the eye, and he's afraid, for the very first time since she met him, he's actually _afraid._ "Get to the meeting place, I'll be there as soon as I can, I promise."

"This is ridiculous," she snaps, grabbing him by the shirt as if to pull him along with them. "There's no reason we can't all go."

"Yes, there is," he replies, grabbing her face in both hands. "They'll follow me, they won't bother to look for anyone else. It's _me_ they want, and I will not see anyone die for me. Least of all _you."_

"For the last time, I'm not just going to — "

But he looks up, face twisting into regret, and nods, and she hears Victor moving behind her just before world goes black.

.

She nearly _kills_ Victor when she wakes up on a cart, already halfway to the east gate, punching him in the jaw and hitting him several times in the chest.

He grabs her arms to stop her assault and shushes her desperately before she can start _verbally _beating him and — taking a risk, brave man — leans in close to her to speak. "Look, I'm _sorry,_ but Killian and I _talked_ about this, if it came down to it… he told me to drag you out if I had to, he wouldn't see you hanged or imprisoned with him."

"They're gonna _kill_ him," she hisses, and he holds his hand over her mouth.

"No, they're not. Not immediately, anyway," he says, but goes on before she can give him a scathing retort about how reassuring _that_ isn't. "He'll have time to make an escape plan, and he's good at picking locks and getting around unseen."

"I'm better," she growls, muffled by his hand, and Vic winces.

"Yeah, that's true," he concedes, but gives her a look she doesn't like at all. "But do you have any idea what happens to girls like you in prisons like these?" He barely gives that time to sink in before he continues, and it sounds rehearsed, like Killian told him and made him remember it. "The guards at the local jail are bad enough, but at the prison? That's where they send the ones who couldn't cut it as a regular guard, who were too cruel or too awful, that's where they end up working. They'd _eat you alive_, Emma."

He's right, and it makes her hate him more. "We could have all escaped," she whispers viciously, tears of what she insists to herself is anger in her eyes.

"Maybe," Victor replies softly. "But he wasn't willing to take the risk that we couldn't."

"And so he made this decision without any input from me," she chokes, forcing herself to be angry at him so she can stop being scared for him.

Of course he wasn't willing to take that risk; she thinks of the way he begged her to tell him she loved him, like she was all that held him together; the things she's always known about him, even before she met him, how far he'll go for the people he loves, how no price is too high for a guarantee of their — her — safety.

"It's gonna be fine," Vic says, a little lamely. "You'll see, he'll be back in no time and then you can hit _him_ instead of _me."_

.

His knees hit cold stone, a guard on either side of him, holding him by each arm as the magistrate — small man in a big body, gloating all over his face — walks up.

"How appropriate," he says softly. "The king of the street rats finally kneels to the law."

At least, he thinks, he's the only one the magistrate really cares to catch; as long as the others lay low for a while, they'll be safe.

She'll be _safe._

.

Victor is wrong; much longer than "no time" has passed, a week, two, four, six, where he'd sworn it wouldn't take him a day to get out of wherever they put him.

Two months have passed before she notices that her shirts fit tighter in the chest than usual, and realizes she hasn't bled since before they left.

.

She is, even she can admit, panicking.

She has to leave.

Killian is — he's still back in the city or in some far-off prison but more probably already dead and even if he _isn't,_ he's in prison and it's going on three months and all the reconnaissance missions Vic has sent after him have turned up _nothing_ and even if he _was_ here they'd still be living out on the _streets _and — and this is the sort of life you _fall_ into, not the sort you're _born_ into — this isn't something she can put a baby through, no one should be put through it at all, ever.

And what do any of them know about pregnancy or childbirth? She's a _street rat,_ they're all street rats, no one will help her, and even if someone does, she won't be able to pay and she thinks about having this baby and trying to raise it on the street _with_ the group but _without_ Killian and so really without much of anyone (the hysteria rises) and she _has_ to go, she has to _leave,_ she has to find a steady job with a steady pay and a stable home to raise a child in, and for that she has to go far away, somewhere that no one knows her or Killian or any of them.

She can't control the panic; maybe it's the hormones (no, it's definitely the hormones, she's never this hysterical), but she can't come up with another way out.

And then — these things always come at the worst times — word reaches them that the magistrate recently hanged a whole crop of thieves as a warning to others and Victor _tries_ — he really does — to calm her down, but she's _absolutely positive_ that Killian was among them (because hanging him would be the best sort of warning, and the judges and lawmen have been after him for years and years, and he's a symbol, and, and) and she's a mess, the hormones and the absolute terror at the thought of motherhood and an emotion somewhere between worry and grief all muddling up inside her and setting her over the edge.

Vic gets her to promise that she'll wait here while he goes back into the city to find out — he doesn't say it, but he doesn't want her to go for fear she'll be right — but the night after he leaves, she packs up everything she has into a little bundle and heads off in the opposite direction.

.

She has to go to an entirely different country before she can find someone who will give her work — now visibly pregnant — but she strikes gold when she does: Melinda Lucas, the head of a kitchen in a count's household, is a stern older woman with a begrudgingly kind heart, who decides to take a chance on her.

The count himself is not so nice, but he doesn't pay her much attention and so she doesn't care.

She doesn't really know her way around a real kitchen, but she's a decent cook and a quick study, and two months before the baby comes, she's already made herself right at home among the servants and the cooks, some of whom sniff at her for being alone and pregnant and some of whom are nicer to her because of it.

It's not much, but it's stable.

.

"What do you mean, she's gone?" Killian asks Victor, who shrugs miserably, having either drawn the short straw or banked on his long friendship with Killian to have this conversation.

"I don't know, she just up and left one day, few months back now. We got word that they'd executed a bunch of thieves, and she — I don't know, she'd been acting weird for a few days, she wouldn't listen to anyone. I told her I'd come find out if you'd been hanged like those others, and she promised she'd stay, but when I got back…" he trails off and looks away. "I'm sorry, we went looking for her, obviously, but she's just… gone."

_She's just gone._

He can't breathe.

Yeah, it took longer than he'd thought it would to get out of prison and meet up with them, but he got out — just like he said he would — and he came back and now he finds out that she's abandoned them — abandoned _him_ — without so much as a reason.

What the hell?

He's come all this way — she had to have known he would keep his promise, she knew he wouldn't let the lawmen _kill_ him, how could she have — but she's gone, run off because… why?

Did she lie when she said she loved him?

"That doesn't make sense," he shouts, and both Vic and several of the others watching wince; everyone, it seems, has been expecting this reaction.

"It doesn't," Vic agrees, holding his hands up in exasperation, or the lack of any other way to expend some energy.

"No note, no explanation, nothing?" he demands, increasingly agitated. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know."

That's the worst part, maybe — the look of sympathy on Victor's face as he tells him he has no explanation for why the woman Killian loves is gone. It's the finality of it all.

Emma is gone, and she's not coming back.

"I don't… but… why?" he says, volume dropping with every word, and the only reason it isn't a whimper is because he _says_ it isn't a damn whimper.

"I don't know," Vic repeats apologetically. "Really, I… I don't know."

"Right," is all he can mutter.

She lied. That night, that moment, when he'd been on the verge of a death spiral, she had told him she loved him and she'd _lied._

He came back for her, dreamed of her these past months, longed for her so much it made his chest ache, only to have her slip from his fingers like sand before he even knew she was gone.

None of it meant a damn thing to her.

_He_ hadn't meant a damn thing to her.

.

Killian doesn't stay in the city.

In spite of the fact that he only escaped prison a fortnight ago and half the lawmen there are out for his blood, he decides to return to the city under the guise of hiding under their noses. It would work better if he would _actually_ hide, but he's angry and hurting like hell and he tends to get self-destructive when left unchecked — a tendency he's only let a few people see — and he honestly doesn't care if they hang him right now.

He makes an elaborate show of not caring at all about her absence, which is such an obvious load of shit that even the five-year-old Lucy can see through it, but his volatile mood is showing and no one has been brave enough — not even Vic — to bring up to him that maybe he's not really handling this well.

"I'm bloody _sick_ of this place," he snarls darkly to Victor, the only one currently daring to even speak to him at all after a month of this state, and glances west to the sea. The anger is shifting into a sort of blackly despondent agitation that's killing his impulse control. "You ever been on a boat?"

"No," Vic replies. "Always wanted to, though." And then, as though reading his mind: "I've always thought we'd make fantastic pirates."

"Wouldn't we?" he agrees, smiling in a way that's more teeth than cheer. "All we need is a ship, I'm sure most of the gang will come, got a built-in crew and everything."

"We've never had trouble getting anything else," Vic says, probably too worried about setting him off again to risk disagreeing with him in any way whatsoever. "I don't see why a ship would be any different."

Killian looks at him and the smile turns into a slightly-more-genuine grin. "This is why we're friends."

.

It's a girl.

Emma names her Julia.

.

It's easy to lose track of time in the kitchens, especially with a baby to care for — a baby who doesn't hardly take after her at all, except maybe in the shape of her face or eyes (brilliant blue like her father's, which don't seem likely to change). Melinda helps, along with her granddaughter — a baker in the kitchens who's roughly Emma's age and happens to turn into a wolf every full moon, a secret she goes to great lengths to hide — and Emma feels like she wouldn't be able to do this without them.

Julia is almost one and a half before the count finally takes notice of Emma.

He's decent enough when he's sober — indifferent, mostly, if condescending — but belligerent when he's drunk, and he is _extremely_ drunk. She's in a foul mood — Julia's been sick and so she hasn't slept in three days — and it's an accident when the carafe of wine falls from her shaky hands and into his lap, and the stormy look on his face says this is about to hurt.

And Emma's in _exactly_ the wrong mood for someone to try and hurt her right now, authority figure or no; he stands roughly, and the carafe falls from his lap and shatters on the floor, forcing her to take a step back to avoid both the broken glass and him. He grabs her by the shoulder and all-but drags her into the hall — it strikes her that none of the other people at the table even blink, and how nice is _that_— and shoves her up against a wall.

"Do you know what happens to little serving wenches who hurt the head of the household?"

"No, but I imagine it's painful," she answers defiantly, which actually brings him up short; probably no one has ever talked back to him before. "It was an accident. Everyone has those."

"It was _calculated humiliation,_ is what it was," he snarls, leaning in closer so as to intimidate her, but she's _far_ past being intimidated.

"If it was calculated humiliation, I would have poured it on your _head,"_ she replies in as even a tone as she can manage, and then — with a somewhat belated sense of self-preservation — tacks on an insincere, "my lord."

He catches the derision in her tone and responds by striking her a glancing blow across her forehead with nearly enough force to knock her down; he's wearing a gaudy ring, and it draws blood, which begins to drip thickly down her face. For a moment, she's physically stunned by the pain and the shock of it.

He grabs her chin and shoves her back into a standing position. "Now, this is the first time I've had to teach you a lesson, so I'm going to be very, _very_ kind — far kinder than a bitch deserves — and let this be a warning to you." He leans in again for the intimidation. "If this happens again, if you _ever_ speak to me in that tone again, I'll kill you and take the little whelp you think I don't know about and throw her over the outer wall. Have I made myself clear?"

She's trapped between a fury so absolute that it makes her want to tear his throat out with her fingernails and a terror so paralyzing that her very mind goes numb. The image of her daughter's body on the ground below the high walls —

"Yes," she replies tightly.

"Good," he says, and steps away from her, now holding out the hand with the bloody ring. "Thank me for the kindness, girl," he warns her, and it takes her a moment to realize that she's supposed to kiss his ring. She pretends not to know this foreign custom, and drops into a low curtsy, bowing her head; it's as much of a concession as she's capable of at the moment.

"Thank you for the kindness, my lord," she murmurs, acidically demure, and it's enough for his drunken sensibilities.

She walks away, hands shaking in rage, and plans to leave this place tonight, but by the time she gets down to the kitchens, her better judgment has come back to her.

Winter is coming on, in the fast way it does as the sun turns against them, and he'll be expecting some sort of retaliation, or he'll at least be keeping an eye on her, hunting for an excuse to make good on his promise. She _might_ be able to pack everything up and leave before he finds out she's going, but she might not, and any risk that could end with her daughter's death is one she isn't willing to take.

And more to the point, the count notwithstanding, this place is good for Julia. There's always food on her plate and people willing to mash it up so she can eat it or feed her if Emma can't, the both of them have a secure, warm bed to sleep in every night, and she's surrounded by people who adore her at best and are indifferent to her at worst, and she has at _least_ three people — Emma, Melinda, and her granddaughter, Ruby — who would die to protect her.

It's so much better than the way she grew up — it's even better than when she fell in with Killian, because of the stable home and lack of lawmen around every corner — and she _can't_ take Julia away from this to go into the uncertainty of a journey in winter to a city that isn't home anymore and a father who's certainly been dead for years now. It would be selfish beyond compare.

She wipes the blood from her forehead before it seeps into her eye.

.

Ruby tends to the gash with a sharp-smelling medicinal tea and a lot of wincing. The anger is slow to subside.

"I wonder why no one's killed him yet," she says coldly.

"He's too powerful," Ruby answers, and sighs. "I'm sorry, I really am. I thought… I know you didn't want to risk him finding out, but he's not a _total_ waste of air, I thought — we _both_ thought — he'd leave you alone if he knew you were a mother."

"It's not your fault," she says, shrugging with transparently-false dismissal. "I'm more worried about Julia than anything else."

"I can't _believe_ he'd threaten to murder an _infant,"_ Ruby mutters in disgust. "I thought everyone had at least _that_ much human decency in them."

"You'd be surprised," Emma murmurs, thinking of some of the children she and Killian had found, how cruel people could really be. Ruby looks at her, and then to the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Listen, I know — it won't happen if we can help it at all, but if for some reason he… If he does decide to… to make good on his promise," she says quietly, and Emma glances at her; she sighs again. "We won't let him anywhere near her. Granny and I will both hang before we'll let any harm come to her."

It's kind, and to a degree that makes her heart clench in her chest, but it's empty: if Melinda and Ruby tell him he'll have to kill them to get to Julia, he'll just take them up on the offer.

It takes her a while to form a response. "Thank you," she says finally, and then hesitates, thinking of how much is safe to tell Ruby and what would be best. "If that happens… In Northampton… that's where her father lives, or… lived. He's easy to find, or his allies are. Ask for the king of the street rats. Everyone knows him."

"King of the street rats?" Ruby repeats, amused, and then sobers up a bit. "You've never said anything about her father."

"No," she replies evenly. "I haven't."

And even though it isn't an explanation, Ruby doesn't ask for more.


	3. act three

Five years pass, much the same.

Julia is bright, and mischievous like her father, to the point that Melinda starts forcing her to help Ruby with the baking in a surprisingly-successful attempt to channel her energy and curiosity into something more immediately useful than teaching herself to read from the erotic novels Melinda has hidden under her mattress.

She's also almost-worryingly friendly, but then, she lives in a kitchen where everyone who interacts with her regularly adores her and Emma has worked _very_ hard to keep her completely sequestered from the count.

The problem is, when parties are going on that require everyone's attention and Julia is told to stay in her room and out of trouble, it's hard to explain to her why she can't go exploring the castle and why it's dangerous to be out alone. Emma — along with Melinda and Ruby — has gone _well_ out of her way to ensure that no one has _ever_ hurt Julia.

Until the day he does.

He's drunker than usual, and apparently was already in a violent mood before running into them, because he gets handsy and stumbling, and when Emma tries to tell him that he really ought to be going to bed, he explodes.

And Julia, naively brave, runs in to defend her mother, shoving the count away with all the force an angry six-year-old can muster, shouting at him to leave them alone. Emma's already on her way to grab her, but the count is closer and backhands her across the cheek so hard she falls to the floor; he sneers and begins to stumble away.

She has to choose between running to help her child or running to _kill that man_, which isn't really a choice at all, and so she lets him go.

"Julia, look at me," she says quietly, hands shaking with rage, a plot already forming in her head — because this is the last straw, the absolute_ last fucking straw_, no one _ever_ lays a hand on her child, _ever._ There's another fete tomorrow, she'll be stuck at it all night but the count will be drunk when he leaves, and an easy target, and no one will notice he's dead until late the next evening, they'll chalk it up to him being stuck in bed with a hangover. She's never killed anyone before, but she saw Killian do it several times and knows how it's done.

Julia looks up with tears in her eyes and Emma touches her cheek. "I'm sorry," she replies, but Emma shakes her head.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," she says fervently, taking Julia's hand. "Don't worry," she goes on, trying to mask her fury with the also-intense concern. "This won't happen again."

.

Victor was right: they're fantastic pirates.

He gains a bit — actually, quite a bit more than _a bit_ — of a reputation as someone not to cross, but who's more concerned with hunting treasure than amassing a fleet, so if you leave Captain Jones and his crew alone, he'll leave you and yours alone too. It only takes a couple of captains challenging him for that to become solid; their crews, he tells to do whatever they like, their ships, he sells and splits the gold among his crew.

For the first time, he is actually, legitimately _rich,_ and for the first time since she left, he's actually happy.

(He still dreams about her, and in every city he still scans the crowds for her and says he isn't.)

They stop in a little port town on the eastern coast, where word on the street says a count with a wealth of gold and a terrible drinking problem lives, and he decides to scout it out on his own, see if it's really as easy pickings as they say. The rest of the crew is fine to mull around town and stimulate the local economy, leaving him on his own to do as he pleases.

He crashes the party for a little while, scopes out the crowd — _wow,_ can these people put wine down, _damn_ — and spots the count, an older man with a face as red as the drink in his glass. Everyone is concentrated in the dining hall, and even the guards are nipping at the drinks; clearly, no one's ever robbed this place before.

Easy, _easy_ pickings.

He slips back out of the party without speaking to anyone and makes his way through the halls in search of the countess's quarters — surely she'll have her jewels in there — and he's several corridors away, far enough that he can't hear the party's noises anymore, when he starts to think he's being followed.

Killian turns sharply, but the hall is empty and a quick search of the shadows turns up nothing, so he tentatively decides he's just being paranoid and keeps walking. He only gets one more hall down before it pricks at his neck again, and he identifies the source: the soft, almost-silent rustling of clothing.

"Hello?" he asks suspiciously, and the chirpy female voice that responds comes from the ceiling.

"Hello!"

He's starts violently and stumbles against the wall, looking up. The _rafters,_ he realizes. She's in the _rafters._

It's dark up there, so he can't see much of her, but she's small, and when she sits down and lets her feet swing back and forth, he can see that she's dark-haired and smiling and either the shadows are hitting her strangely or half her face is bruised.

"Who are you?" she asks him, and he raises an eyebrow.

"You're the one following me," he replies, a little reproachful. "I think I should be asking that."

_"You're_ the one who doesn't belong here," she counters snobbishly, "that means _you_ should be answerin' _me."_

"Who says I don't belong here?"

"I do."

He tilts his head. "Are you the count's daughter?" he guesses, but she wrinkles her nose.

"No, I live in the kitchens. But I know everyone who comes here, and you're not one of 'em." Her whole countenance brightens up suddenly. "Are you a pirate?"

The eagerness in her voice makes him smile a little. "I am," he answers, and sweeps into a bow. "Captain Killian Jones, at your service."

"Kill-i-an," she repeats, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her about how his title is _Captain._ "I've never heard a name like that before."

"Well, I've never heard a name like yours before."

"I haven't even told you my name."

"Exactly."

This brings the little girl up short — she opens her mouth to reply and then closes it with a pout — and he tries (badly) to suppress a grin. He can't help it; he's always liked kids, it's one of the reasons he amassed such a following of them, he could never turn away a child in need.

She huffs melodramatically, but answers, "Julia," in a slightly petulant tone.

"Ju-li-a," he repeats, mimicking the way she'd said his name and earning himself an adorable glare. "Pretty name, that. It was my mother's."

"Really?"

"Really," he answers, and crosses his arms. "What are you doing up in the rafters, Julia?"

"Safer up here," she replies immediately, and a little thinly, in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise up.

The amusement he's felt thus far begins to fall away.

(It's definitely a bruise.)

"Safer from what?" he asks, but she shakes her head. "Why don't you come down here, angel?"

She shakes her head again, and repeats, "It's not safe," firmly, like it has personal meaning to her, and he doesn't like that at all. He thinks of the drunken, maybe-belligerent count, stumbling through the halls to get to his room, or else maybe a bad-tempered cook for whichever parent she lives with — but the "unsafe halls" suggest the former. "Besides," she goes on hastily, "there's only one good way to get down from here, and it's forever back that way."

"You could jump," he says, quickly becoming more concerned about the girl than the money. "I'll catch you."

Her legs swing back and forth nervously, and she glances around. "You promise?" she asks anxiously, and he smiles.

"I promise."

She takes a deep breath, nods to herself, and jumps, straight into his arms vertically, so she lands with her arms on his shoulders, and he sets her down to her feet, kneeling so he's at her eye level.

Her eyes are blue — _very_ blue — and the shape of her face is familiar, if marred by the ugly bruise on her cheek. He touches it gingerly.

"What happened?" he asks, and she winces.

"The count," she replies quietly. "Last night. He was mad and my mom tried to tell him to go to bed but he got madder and it looked like he was gonna hit her so I ran at him and shoved him away and…"

"He hit you," Killian infers, and she looks away, lips pursing. "Why'd you step in? I doubt your mum would want you to."

"Someone had to," Julia says, frowning. "She thinks I don't know, but he's a bad man. He _hurts _people."

The look on her face stings him deeper than it should; she's frowning just like Emma used to frown when she was worried, wrenching up memories he's spent seven years suppressing.

"Brave of you," he comments quietly, and she huffs — just like Emma — and rolls her eyes.

"Aunt Ruby says it's just human decency."

"Who's Aunt Ruby?"

"Granny Lucas's granddaughter," she replies, and then smiles brilliantly, and _familiarly._ "She's my aunt. I mean, not my _real_ aunt but may as well be."

"What about your dad?" he asks slowly, the girl's smile lingering in his mind along with a deep-seeded and slowly-growing horror.

"Haven't got one," she answers, shrugging. "Mom doesn't talk about him. I think it makes her sad."

_She just up and left one day, few months back now_.

The color of her eyes, the shape of her face.

_Julia._

Oh… _shit._

"How old are you, sweetheart?" he asks, mouth going dry.

"Six," she replies, holding out as many fingers, and then — as if to twist the knife further — adds, "and one-quarter!"

"Six and one-quarter, eh?" he repeats, smiling in spite of the hard knot forming in his gut — it's ridiculous to think… but the timing matches up and she looks _just like him_ but smiles and frowns and talks like Emma and _no._ No. _No._ "How's it you already know fractions?"

"Granny Lucas teaches me," she says, and then giggles impishly in a way that makes his gut twist. "She says it's way better than havin' me teach myself to read on the books she keeps in her mattress."

"On the books she — oh," he says, catching on, and has to look down to stifle the inappropriate laughter that threatens to bubble up at that. A little girl teaching herself to read on porn, that's _amazing,_ that… sounds exactly like something a child of his would do.

Oh, gods.

_(Please,_ he wonders, or please _no?)_

"Can you tell me something, Julia?" he asks, and his voice is weak in his throat. She tilts her head.

"What?"

"Your mum, what's her name?"

He isn't sure what he's hoping, but when she says, "Oh, Emma," his heart still comes nearly to a stop.

She's _here._

Here, in this castle, this little town hundreds of miles from home, the place he stopped in to rob because it sounded easy, almost passed up because it seemed _too_ easy — _here_ — a few halls or a few floors away from him and — and probably unaware that her daughter — _his_ daughter — _their_ daughter — has been roaming the castle on her own through the rafters and _definitely_ unaware that he's here because if she knew he was she would have come to find him or — or maybe she wouldn't or — and —

It all makes sense. For the first time in seven years, it makes _sense._

She found out she was pregnant, and she couldn't tell the group because none of them knew anything about pregnancy or childbirth but she thought he was dead — although why she refused to consider that maybe he _wasn't_ actually dead, or why she didn't think to _leave a goddamn note_ — and so she went looking for someone who would give her a steady home and payment and found it in the cook and _that fucking count_ —

He's torn between the desire to pull Julia into his arms and never let go and to hunt that bastard down and _strangle him with his own insides_.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asks, and when he looks up at her, she looks worried.

"No, not at all," he replies tightly, with a thin and maybe desperate smile. "I — "

But before he can come up with something, there's noise a couple of halls back, footsteps staggering, and Julia freezes up. "It's the count," she whimpers, and he thinks he might die. She's looking around desperately and snatches his hand, tugging at him. "We can get back up into the rafters, he won't know we're here, we've gotta _go."_

"Julia," he says firmly, in as neutral a tone and expression as he can manage while his blood is boiling over in his veins. "It's all right."

"No, it isn't!" she cries, and he pulls her closer to him, a hand on either side of her face.

"Julia," he says again, "he is not going to hurt you. Or your mum. Ever again, understand?"

She blinks in surprise and asks, "Are you gonna hurt him?" and there's really nothing for it.

"Yes," he replies without shame. "I am going to hurt him _badly."_

"Can I watch?"

_Yeah,_ he thinks, with mild hysteria, _definitely my child_.

"No. What you _can_ do is find your mum for me, tell her Killian sent you to get her, she'll understand."

But the count turns the corner before she can say anything else, and he stands quickly, drawing his sword in the same motion; Julia grasps his leg and hides behind it and he's _sure_ he's going to die.

"Who the hell are you?" the count asks, and he tilts his head.

"Who the hell do you think I am?"

"A bloody pirate is what it looks like," he snarls, and opens his mouth to cry for guards probably, but he shuts up when Killian's sword appears at his throat and pushes him back toward the wall. He's moving as little as possible, so as not to upset Julia, but he doesn't have to move far anyway.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replies brightly, and sweeps into an ironic half-bow, sword never wavering. "Captain Killian Jones. Ah," he says, smiling at the way the man's face pales, "I see you've heard of me. Good, that makes this easier. Now, look a bit closer, _mate,"_ he continues, dropping the cheerful act and letting some of his pent-up malevolence show, "and tell me: who do you think I am?"

The man's eyes are drawn to Killian's left hand, which has found itself — quite without his input — resting on the back of Julia's head and pulling her closer, hiding her better; if it's possible, the count pales further.

"Julia doesn't have a father," he says faintly, and Killian's fingers tighten on the hilt. He feels her head tilt as she looks up at him and he refuses to meet her gaze.

"That would be because Julia's father didn't know he had a daughter," he replies silkily. "But you've heard of me, so surely you've heard of how I… _react_ when people I love are harmed or threatened?"

"You just met her, you can't possibly — " the count starts, and Killian cuts him off unceremoniously, digging the sword into his throat just deep enough to draw a bead of blood.

"_Do not presume to know what I can and cannot do_," he snarls. Without looking away from the count's wide eyes, he says, "Julia, remember when I told you to find your mum?"

"Are you really my dad?"

"That's not an answer," he counters tightly; it's taking all of his willpower not to have the very first impression his daughter has of him be murdering a man, and he's running very, _very_ short on willpower at the moment.

"Yes," she answers hesitantly, "tell her Killian sent me."

"Good girl," he replies. "You should go do that now."

"Are you gonna kill him?"

_"Now,"_ he says sharply, and she heaves a short sigh before running off; he wonders if he should be concerned that his daughter is annoyed that she can't watch him kill someone.

But then, she's _his_ daughter, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised.

…gods above, he has a _daughter._

.

He finds her again in the kitchens, talking animatedly to an older, severe-looking woman so rapidly that he can't understand her; when the the woman looks up as he walks in and startles, her chattering stops abruptly and she turns to him with a brilliant grin and he is already dead.

"Well," the woman says. "And here I thought she was making it up."

"Told you!" Julia cries, running to him and grabbing his hand (he's suddenly glad he took the time to clean the blood off), dragging him closer to the woman who is probably this Granny Lucas. "I know Mom is in the dining hall _somewhere,_ but I can't find her," she grumbles, "so I got Granny instead."

"I don't think I'm a good substitute, Julia."

"No, but you can _get_ her! And then he's gonna take us with him he has a _pirate ship_ we're gonna go _all over the world_ on a buncha adventures you _gotta_ find Mom."

He blinks in surprise, but then, it isn't really that surprising; of _course_ she'd jump to that conclusion, she's never had a dad before, but probably always dreamed about him — about _him, shit_ — and if she's anything like him — and it seems like she is — she's adventurous and wants to explore (of course she does, why would he even consider that she wouldn't, he found her in the goddamn _rafters), _and so stumbling upon her father, who happens to be a pirate of all things, is _literally_ a dream come true.

But pirate ships are no place for little girls, and if Emma ran all this way to have his child without him, she probably won't want to see him at all. The thought makes his blood pressure rise with both anger and pain — she doesn't owe him her love, or her future, but she _does_ owe him an explanation.

"Julia, you don't know that…" Granny Lucas says tentatively, looking up at him, but he's not looking at her — Julia turns to him with wide, thin-ice eyes, but he's the one who cracks.

"But he's my dad," she says in a small voice. "You _are_ gonna take us with you, right?"

He's answering before he can even think about it, "Depends on what your mum says." He glances up to the older woman, who's watching him in calculation. "But I'd like to."

What an understatement; especially when the girl's whole face lights up with another grin.

And then it hits him that he didn't bother to do anything with the body. "Actually," he starts, with a hard wince, and her face starts to fall, but then he goes on, "it might be a good idea to leave the castle right now."

"Why?" the woman asks sharply, and he runs a hand through his hair, wincing again.

"Without admitting anything, I have it on good authority that the count has suffered an untimely and _rather_ bloody demise on the third floor."

He glances to the bruise on Julia's face, and Granny Lucas doesn't need to ask for more.

"Good riddance," she mutters, and then sighs mistrustfully. "But that does make this trickier. A lot of people know about Emma's feud with him, and if they think she did it, they'll execute her." She doesn't say it, but he knows enough about the laws in these parts to know that they'd probably kill Julia, too.

(Of course, they'd have to do that over his dead body, and he's reasonably certain that even _that _wouldn't be enough — he'd come back as a goddamn _vengeful spirit_ to stop them killing her, eternity spent wandering the earth or no.)

"How do we find you?" Granny Lucas asks.

"She's the only brig in the harbor, you can't miss her."

When he looks at Julia, he sees wide-eyed fear on her face, and wonders why before it hits him where he's seen that before — the first time he went away to get supplies and Emma looked at him like he'd never come back, like he'd abandon her just like everyone else. They all had that moment of doubt.

He kneels down so he's eye-level with her. "You want to come with me now or wait for your mum?" he asks, already knowing what she'll say.

He's right. "I wanna go with you," she answers in a tiny voice, and he nods before looking up at Granny Lucas.

"Probably better that way," he says evenly, picking Julia up almost unconsciously because maybe he's a little afraid she'll disappear the moment he lets go of her too.

Granny nods slowly and mistrustfully, picking up a large, familiar-looking bundle, already all made-up and neatly tied just like he taught her to, and handing it to him; when he looks at it in confusion, she explains in a low voice. "You didn't _really_ think Emma would take that lying down, do you?"

Oh.

The count was never going to see dawn anyway.

Well, then.

"I'm not sure why I did," he mutters, although he is — she disappeared on him so he wouldn't know anything about his own damn _child,_ he isn't really putting anything past her at the moment. "Don't tell her it's me," he adds, and Granny Lucas raises an eyebrow. "Just say it was pirates."

"Want to make sure she'll go?"

"Yes," he replies honestly; he isn't sure that she won't run away again if she finds out he's here unless he has someone she'll definitely come running for.

"Fair enough," she mutters, but doesn't look very comfortable with it. "One condition."

"Name it."

"You take my granddaughter with you," she says immediately. "Not necessarily for _good,_ but for right now." She takes a step forward, and he leans back, honestly a bit intimidated. "That little girl is, for all intents and purposes, my granddaughter, and if you think I'm going to just let some _man_ carry her off — father or no — you're a _fool._ Also," she adds, with some vindictive pleasure, "Ruby happens to be a werewolf, and has been known to eat people. Not that that has anything to do with anything."

He blinks several times in quick succession; that is one _hell_ of a warning. He can honestly say that this is the first time anyone has ever threatened him with _violent cannibalism_ should he hurt someone.

"Absolutely," he replies fearfully, as though there was ever any other answer he could give.

.

When he meets Ruby and they make their way to his ship — Julia refuses to get down from his arms, even when they start to get tired and he kind of wishes she would — Killian wonders if maybe Granny Lucas was bluffing him: Ruby's as sweet as they come.

On the other hand, it's always the ones you'd least expect.

"You know," he says slowly, fishing a bit. "Assuming you can control it, having a werewolf on board would be something of a… let's say a boon."

"Oh, gods," she sighs. "She _told_ you about that? Did she tell you I'd eat you if you hurt Julia?"

"Heavily implied, more like," he answers, relieved for about three seconds before she goes on.

"Good. Because I will."

He's torn between wondering what the hell Emma was thinking when she shacked up with these people and wanting to congratulate her on making such a good decision.

"Aunt Ruby doesn't _really_ eat people," Julia says, with childish exasperation. "It's just to scare you."

"It's effective," he mutters, and Ruby laughs.

"Don't worry," she says kindly, "I don't think you're going to hurt her at all. And yes, I can control it, and yes, I had intended to join up with you whether you liked it or not."

"Oh?"

She glances at him, much more sober. "Emma isn't the only one with a reputation for trouble with the count. I hope you have room for a cook, too, because we're a package deal."

He thinks about that for a moment — _gods,_ having a real cook on board would be nice; the only person on crew willing to get into the galley tends to make dinners so salty they could kill an oceanfish.

Before he can answer, they've reached the docks and the ship, where he can hear a couple of people mulling about, but most of the crew is probably still haunting the brothels or taverns, and for that, he's grateful. He isn't sure he's prepared to explain this to everyone just yet.

The first person who sees them is, of course, Victor, who reacts to this development in the exact way Killian thought he would: "You're back earl — hell_o_ — wait a second…"

Julia waves, and Vic's eyebrows fly up as it hits him.

"Oh," he says bluntly. _"That's_ why she left. I am wondering when she turned into a gorgeous brunette, though."

The hand not holding his daughter rises almost of its own accord to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration; however, Ruby seems to find it amusing, and holds her hand out to shake.

"Ruby, new resident werewolf."

Victor — either utterly desensitized by now to, well, everything or too captivated by her appearance to care — just takes her hand like she didn't say anything odd at all. "Victor, resident first mate and first-rate ladykiller."

At least _someone_ finds him funny.

.

Melinda finds her near the banquet table filling glasses of wine.

"Emma," she says fervently, and the look on her face almost makes her drop the bottle, "you have to come with me, right now."

"What happened?" she asks, terror rising. "Where's Julia?"

"Pirates," Melinda replies, voice nearly breaking. "They've killed the count and taken her, I couldn't catch them, they took her, you have to — "

She drops the bottle and bolts before the glass can even break, not bothering let her finish her sentence.

.

Emma, followed by a huffing Granny, makes it to the docks in record time, and is relieved (for a certain definition of "relieved") to see the ship hasn't left yet; when she gets closer, however, she hears a voice that makes her stop dead in her tracks.

"Victor," Killian is drawling, "I swear to everything you hold dear in this world, if you drop that child, I will _kill_ you."

She staggers against the nearest pole, and Melinda coughs a bit.

"I might have left something out."

"You _think?"_ she hisses in a strangled voice.

She hears Julia give a cry of dismay, and then another familiar voice: "Sorry, sweetie, but when you're soft and chewy, you do exactly what the papa bear tells you to."

She can't breathe.

Of _course._ Of _course_ he'd get a ship and become a pirate when he'd finally had enough of that city, that's exactly — that's _just like him_ and of _course_ they'd follow him, they'd all follow him to the grave and how the _hell_ did he find Julia and _why_ the hell did he think it was a good idea to _kidnap her_ and force Emma to — oh.

She's shaking as she walks up to the gangplank, and it's Vic who sees her first.

"Long time, no see, stranger," he says cheerfully, and Julia grins and waves and starts to babble about _look, look, Mom, look who I found_, but when she _does_ look to Killian, his expression is blank and wooden.

He still wears that leather coat, appears so much the same and so much _more_ than she remembers; he's clearly done well for himself, looks more like a nobleman than half the people in that castle at the same time that he's obviously a pirate even at a glance.

And he's trying to hide it, but he's _furious,_ furious and _wounded_ and she hadn't — she hadn't considered the possibility that he might be alive and looking for her, or how he'd react if he found out about Julia.

"Killian," is all she can say. "You're alive."

"Of course I am, love," he replies warmly, although his eyes are anything but. "I promised you, didn't I?" He pauses for a moment to let that sink in, and she has to look away from him. "Couldn't really stay in the city, so I… _adapted._ Heard about a bloody rich, drunken count in this area, like to throw lavish parties, seemed like an easy mark, you'd think, no?"

"Yeah," she says tightly. "Really easy."

He nods with a little _hmm_ that might be agreement or might be derision. "Found myself with a little shadow up in the rafters, says her mother's name is Emma and — " he laughs once, breathy and mocking " — well, she looks familiar, let's say."

Everyone on the ship has gone quiet and is watching the scene with tense interest. "It's a long story," she says quietly, which is true at the same time it's not; the part he's concerned with isn't long at all.

"I've got all night," he replies, with a knowing sort of sharpness to his voice, because it's obvious she's avoiding the question he's not quite asking. It makes her irritated, and a little desperate, and the shaking in her hands is only getting worse.

"You don't understand," she breathes, and he takes a step closer.

"Then _explain it to me_," he snaps loudly, finally letting his anger out in the open; she closes her eyes. "No, I _don't_ understand, I've _never_ understood. And now I find out — " he cuts himself off, visibly shaking and _obviously_ hurt and he's not even bothering to hide it. "At what point did you start lying to me?" he asks in a much lower voice, stretched taut and vibrating with emotion.

She looks around at the group's feet, and there seems to be so _many_ of them, and — "Can we take this somewhere else?" she asks, matching his tone and finally looking back up at him. Without another word, he takes two steps backward toward the quarterdeck and opens the door to his quarters, arm stretched over it to both hold it open and beckon her in. She takes a deep breath and follows, and when he closes it behind them she almost can't breathe.

.

He didn't expect to be _this_ angry.

But seeing her standing there on his ship, older and more beautiful than he remembers and looking at him like — like she's _devastated_ — suddenly it's all so much more _real._ He's found her, finally _found her._

And the look on her face says she didn't want him to.

It takes everything in him not to slam the door — because Julia is watching and probably already thinks he's going to hurt Emma in some way and _shit,_ he completely forgot she was there — and he turns to Emma, standing with her back to him. He stays by the door; the way she was looking at him on deck is something he can't stand to see again.

"I never lied to you," she says quietly, and he can't contain the incredulous laugh; she sighs. "I _didn't. _I meant every word."

"You'll forgive me for disbelieving you," he sneers.

"You don't — you _can't_ understand," she pleads, and he wants to scream at her to _stop saying that, _but she goes on. "I wasn't — I couldn't _think_ straight, do you have any idea what pregnancy does to your emotions? I was already worried sick, and then I found out I was — I was pregnant and the next day — _the next day_ — we get word that the magistrate has hanged a bunch of thieves as some sort of — of warning, and I thought… I just _knew_ you were one of them and I _panicked._

"Victor tried to calm me down but I — I couldn't listen, I couldn't believe him. And… and I'd been thinking… this wasn't a way to raise a child," she explains, never turning to look at him. He wonders just what it is that keeps her eyes averted from him — fear? shame? horror? "On the streets — that's something you do when you lose everything else, I couldn't… we'd need something stable and — and _safe."_

"You didn't think I'd make that happen?" he says, just shy of an outright snarl. She takes a deep breath through audibly clenched teeth.

"I _thought_ you were _dead,"_ she snaps, firm and angry and finally turning toward him and there are tears in her eyes. "Who was I supposed to expect that from, _Victor?_ He's fine and all, but he's not a leader, not like you, and even less a _father._ I was _terrified,_ and I felt _alone,_ and I suddenly had this huge responsibility I was _trapped_ in that _no one_ could help me with, and you _can't_ understand how that is."

He doesn't have a good response; he doesn't know how to react to Emma crying. It's something he's never seen before, and even in his anger, he doesn't like it at all.

"The only thing I could think of was that I needed to find somewhere safe and stable, and that wasn't in a crew of — of homeless kids living off what we could _steal._ And then Vic — he was trying to help, he made me promise to wait and said he would go back to the city and find news but he wouldn't let me come with him because he thought I was right, too. _He_ thought you were dead, too, and that — it meant — I _thought_ it meant — I wasn't overreacting. It wasn't just me." She pauses for a moment, looking away again and wiping at her eyes angrily. "And I didn't want to _know,"_ she says finally. "I didn't want him to come back and tell me it was true. If I didn't know for sure, I could always…"

When she doesn't finish that sentence for a long time, he prompts her. "You could always what?"

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I could always hope you'd show up someday," she whispers.

He doesn't know how to feel about that. "It didn't occur to you to leave a note?"

"No," she answers bluntly, shrugging. "I told you, I wasn't thinking straight. I mean, gods, I ran away alone and pregnant in _early autumn_ on the — on the _hope_ that someone would help me, and you think I was that rational? If Melinda hadn't taken pity on me, I probably would have _died_ because of that stupid decision."

Everything in him wrenches at that thought. "Then why not send one?" he asks, making up his mind not to dwell on how he had — albeit indirectly — nearly gotten her killed. "That irrational state of mind surely passed."

"Killian…" she sighs, and tilts her head, meeting his eyes for the first time in seven years. "Where would I have sent it?"

That one sentence says more about why she felt it necessary to leave than anything else she's told him so far, and the anger starts to subside with it. The streets are no place for a baby, and even if he _had _gotten back before she'd left, she would have been taking a risk — they'd been homeless and poor and had the law on their backs at every turn. They would have been together, but it would have been dangerous, and she'd chosen to seek out a stable, safe place to raise Julia rather than risk her daughter's life on the hope that he was not only alive, but that they could perpetually avoid the lawmen who were responsible for his imprisonment in the first place.

But they would have been together.

"I know you probably think I'm — terrible, or — or something," she starts, looking away again, "for staying there when that count was — " she cuts herself off and closes her eyes again. "But it really _was_ the best place for her. I think yesterday was the first time he ever even _saw_ her, I don't think he _ever_ knew her name. All of us, me, Ruby, Melinda, half the servants in the house, we all kept him away from her. And she was _safe,_ Killian," she implores, running a hand through her hair.

"She had a mother, a grandmother, an aunt, and a dozen people who all _adored_ her. She had a warm bed she could sleep in every night, and she's _never_ gone hungry, not even _once,_ not even _one_ meal, and — and until last night, no one had _ever_ hurt her in _any_ way. I think — " she sighs " — I think that's why she thought she could attack the count, it had never occurred to her that anyone _would."_

It rolls around in his head and mops the anger up with it: _no one had ever hurt her_. She's been treated so well that she didn't even think anyone _could_ raise a hand to her, she's never known hunger, or the discomfort of sleeping on cold stone, or the emptiness of waking up alone in a place that couldn't ever be home.

Emma has given her everything that none of them had, that even Killian at his best hadn't been able to provide.

He can't fault her for that simply because she hadn't been able to take him with her.

"Look, I — I understand how you feel," she says quietly, and he's really sure she doesn't, "and I — I'm grateful, that you, you know, killed him. I just need — if you'll just give us passage to the next port, we can stay there and… you don't have to deal with us."

He can't tell if the words infuriate him or break him.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, in a voice that fails to stay neutral as the sentence goes on. "Me, the _street rat,_ to leave you and our daughter alone forever?"

"No," she replies immediately, a little desperately, and looks surprised at the thought. "I — this is just really sudden, and you're angry and you have every right to be and I understand if you don't want to take on this — "

"This is your problem," he cuts in, frustrated as all hell, _"this_ is why you really left." He pauses for a moment and takes a step closer to her; he searches her face and finds her guarded, walls thrown back up again to keep him — _Killian_ — out, and he hates it. "You think that no one cares enough about you to be hurt by anything you do. Do you think I would've been so angry if you meant so little to me? Such that I would drop you at the next port like so much rubbish?"

She doesn't respond for a long moment, and neither of them move. If she understands, she doesn't believe him.

"Do you remember the night before my father was hanged?" he asks finally, in a much lower voice, and she looks up to him.

"Of course I do," she replies, and he nods with an ironic smirk.

"Do you know why I needed you to say you loved me?"

"No," she answers softly. "I got the feeling you didn't want to talk about it."

"I didn't," he concedes, "not at the time, no." He looks away from her this time because, like she said, this is so sudden — two hours ago Emma was gone from his life forever and he had no children — and he hasn't had any time to process any part of it except that it _hurts._ "My father was a terrible man," he explains dispassionately, "with a list of crimes only a bit longer than mine. I thought it was the crimes he'd committed that I _hadn't_ that were the difference between us, but the last thing he said to me made me see I was wrong."

"What did he say?" she asks, and she sounds so much like she did that night — concerned and sympathetic and _intimate_ — that it aches.

"He said to tell that to the families of the men I'd killed, how I was still somehow a good man," he replies, and smiles thinly. "He was right, the fact that I refused to commit _every_ crime on his roster was meaningless to the victims." He pauses, and has to turn away again; she's waiting for him to continue, understanding and unjudging and so much _his_ Emma that he can't stand to look at her. "I don't know what I intended to do that night," he goes on, a little ashamed of this, "but it wasn't to return home. But then I walked out of that jail and you were waiting for me… and I realized what really set me apart from him."

She closes her eyes and drops her head. "Someone loved you," she infers, quiet and guilty.

"Someone loved me," he confirms. "Enough to come out into a dangerous place in a dangerous city at a dangerous hour because she thought I might need her. You said that was proof of your love for me," he says, and maybe it's melancholy or maybe it's hopeful or maybe it's bitter. "If you meant so little to me, why would I care that it was a lie?"

His eyes find hers in the ringing silence, watching him with a sort of wet and wounded confusion. "It wasn't a lie," she whispers, a pleading note hidden in her voice. "It _isn't_ a lie."

Everything on her face and in her voice says she's telling the truth; his hand finds her cheek in something between instinct and habit, and she leans into it, reaching up to hold it there, and this is the first time he's touched her since he made Vic drag her away without giving or waiting for _I love you_ or _goodbye_ and he'd forgotten how soft her skin is.

"Isn't it?" he asks quietly, intended to be scathing but coming out more uncertain, and her fingers tighten on his hand.

She kisses his wrist and he can't — he can't stand this close to her while still being so far away. He slides his hand into her hair, pulls her to him the way he's been dying to for years, and presses his lips to her temple.

Emma is _here,_ and he doesn't know if he forgives her or how much there really is to forgive, but she's _here_ and he's not going to lose her again, ever.

They stay like that for a moment, until noise on the deck declares that the crew is meandering back onboard; they both start a little and turn toward the door, his hand never leaving her head.

"I should…" she starts, but he gives her a look.

"You're welcome to stay," he says softly, and he isn't (only) referring to the ship as a whole. "You look exhausted."

"It's been a long few days," she replies, and sounds it; he smiles a little (and it's more or less sincere) and kisses her forehead.

"Get some rest, then," he says. "I'll hunt down the little one."

"That might be difficult," she smirks, sounds like herself again, like the last seven years haven't taken her away from him at all. "She's always getting into places she shouldn't be. Sounds familiar."

He raises an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're referring to."

.

"I'm not a monkey!"

He follows the noise to find Julia, along with a snickering Ruby, in Vic's cabin, where she's climbed up into the rafters again, although this time it seems more to avoid being teased by Killian's first mate than anything else.

"Sorry, but it's regulation," Vic says, crossing his arms and looking up at her, completely failing to notice him in the doorway. _"Every_ pirate ship has to have a monkey. We've been breaking the rules for a long time now, the pirate lords are about to come arrest us for it. Lucky for us you came along."

"You're making that up," she cries, but doesn't sound convinced. "Aunt Ruby!"

Ruby holds up her hands and replies, "Hey, I'm not the pirate here," restraining her laughter with some difficulty.

"See? It's settled," Vic says brightly. "You're our new monkey. If you didn't want the part, you shouldn't have gone climbing all over my cabin."

"There aren't even any pirate lords!" she pouts, clutching the bars in what appears to be unwilling dismay.

"Oh yes, there are," Killian interjects, and both Vic and Ruby start, turning to him a bit guiltily. "They've been terribly unhappy with us for the monkey thing, too."

"Everything all right?" Vic asks in a low voice, and when he smiles it's almost genuine.

"Yeah, it's fine," he says, but before he can go on, Julia leaps down from the rafters — scaring the _life _out of him because that is a _long_ drop for a six-year-old and _they are going to have to do something about this_ — and runs up to him, eyes wide.

"You're not gonna make us leave, are you?" she pleads, all of the humor gone in a way that hurts him far more than he wants to admit, and he makes an incredulous face, kneeling down to her.

"Of course I'm not," he replies warmly, ruffling her hair. "Your mum and I just had to… catch up," he tries to explain without explaining, and it doesn't feel or sound very convincing. "Sorry if I frightened you."

"Didn't scare me," she says quickly, and insincerely, but covers it up with the kind of grin he's used to seeing in the mirror. "Where're we going?"

"On an adventure," he answers, and matches her smile, standing back up. "Welcome aboard the _Jolly Roger,_ my girl."


	4. epilogue

**A/N**: I hadn't really intended to do this (and I think the ending to the story proper is probably better) but I got a lot of requests, and at any rate, I wanted to address what's up with Emma/the Charmings. I had actually intended to do it in the story itself (the parade that set off the second chapter was originally going to be for Snow and Charming, and they'd find her there), but it wouldn't go where I wanted it to, and so...

**ETA 10/18**: Whoa all my italics disappeared at some point I don't understand what happened. Fixed now.

.

.

She isn't trying to be incognito, but when she dresses down and walks through the streets instead of riding on a horse or in a carriage and pulls her hair back from her face, the people don't immediately recognize their queen, and mostly pass her right on by. It's a habit she's formed; she loves her husband and children more than anything, but sometimes, she needs to get away from them and think.

The shadow of Emma has never really gone away, and still lingers in Charming's eyes and Snow's lips.

She would be twenty-five today.

— _Is,_ she tells herself, _is_ twenty-five today, somewhere else in the world, somewhere where she's _alive_ and happy and _wasn't_ killed by Regina twenty-three years ago because they never found any proof and so Emma is not dead, she's celebrating her birthday with — with a home and a family and maybe a kid or two and even if she never finds them again, she's _happy._

She's safe and she's _happy._

Grumpy gets this look in his eyes when autumn comes around every year and Snow lights a lantern for Emma (a celebration, a memory, but mostly a beacon in case she's looking for a light to bring her home), and he tells her without telling her that maybe she should let her daughter's dea—_disappearance_ go, to stop rubbing more salt in this old wound, but he doesn't — can't — understand. Charming is the only one who can understand, and he _does,_ and so that's enough.

It's a milestone birthday — quarter of a century already, has it been that long? — and so she's going out of her way to find a nice lantern, one that will rise high and float far; it brings her farther out of the castle than usual, into the far reaches of the market district, near the harbor where all the foreign merchants sell their wares.

She's inspecting a sage-green paper lantern — she always liked green, matched her eyes just _so_ — and admiring the delicate designs on the edge, when the person at the next stall speaks.

"I love that color," a voice says, and Snow turns to make some agreeable comment but everything comes to a screaming halt when she looks at the woman.

She's smiling and she's _lovely,_ with blonde hair and green eyes and she's in her mid-twenties and she looks kind of like Snow and maybe it's just because of what day it is, but her heart speeds up and she _swears_ it's —

"It is nice," she replies faintly, and the woman smiles, begins to leave, but she can't just — "It's for my daughter," she goes on hastily, a little desperately. The woman looks back at her in polite confusion, so Snow goes on, feeling both stupid and stupidly hopeful. "It's her birthday."

_Really?_ she imagines. _It's my birthday too, what a coincidence!_

"She likes lanterns?" the woman asks instead, and joins her at the stall, and… "That's a sweet idea, letting her light a floating lantern on her birthday. I should remember that."

_I should remember that_. "You have a daughter?" she asks, desperate to know more about this woman (granddaughter?) and terrified to find out.

"I do," she replies, making a face. "She'll be eight next year, thinks she's All Grown Up now and we should be treating her like an adult."

Snow laughs. "Sounds about right," she agrees. "What's her name?"

"Julia," the woman says, and — maybe she's just making polite conversation, but Snow's manipulation works anyway — "What's your daughter's name?"

"Emma," she answers, and something finally goes right, for a given definition of _right._

"Really? That's my name, too. Seems like there are a lot of Emmas around here," she muses. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-five," Snow replies, and Emma tilts her head.

"I guess the lanterns are a tradition?"

"Sort of," she says softly. "Did your parents do anything like that with you?"

Emma's expression gets a little wooden, and maybe Snow's heart picks up faster. "No," she replies. "My parents… aren't around."

"They're dead?"

"Look, don't take this personally," Emma says, giving her a strange look. "But I'm not really into having deep conversations with strangers, you know? No offense."

"Oh, no," she gasps, holding her hands up in supplication. "I didn't mean to — I'm sorry."

The other woman nods and says, "It's fine, it was nice meeting you," in this _final_ tone as she begins to walk away and Snow's heart seizes up in her chest and her feet are following the woman without listening to her brain.

"Look, I — " she starts, and Emma turns to her, now obviously uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for all the questions, but… My daughter, Emma, she… was kidnapped twenty-three years ago. I know it's… it's a long shot, but I light the lantern every year in the hope that… she'll see it and… come home."

"I'm sorry for your loss," the woman says hesitantly, and Snow _knows_ she should stop but she _can't._

"I don't mean to — but she was blonde and had green eyes and you look kind of like her and I don't mean to come off as crazy or anything, but…" She rifles through her pockets intently, looking for the old portrait she always carries with her, and is honestly kind of surprised when she finds it and holds it out and the woman hasn't taken the opportunity to run the hell away from her. "This… this is her."

"She's very pretty," Emma says, taking and inspecting it and how can she not see the resemblance? "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'm her."

How can she _not?_

"You're sure?" she breathes. "You said your parents weren't around…?" She seizes on the look of uncertainty on the woman's face. "Your birthday is coming up, isn't it?"

"I grew up in a completely different country, lady," she says bluntly, but looks very unsure and vaguely disturbed, like she's honestly thinking about it. But as Snow is about to point out that Emma was kidnapped and almost _certainly_ taken to another country, they're interrupted by a young girl, trailed by a man with the universal facial expression of 'long-suffering babysitter'.

"Mom mom mom mom," she squeals, and she _knows._ She knows, this is her granddaughter, running up to her daughter, they're _here,_ this is _them_ —

"What what what what?" Emma replies, barely hiding a grin as Julia wrinkles her nose in annoyance; Snow smiles to herself.

"I tried to catch her, but she's… fast," the babysitter explains, but is cut off by the little girl.

"You've _gotta_ see this cake!" she gushes, tugging on her mother's arm, and Emma turns back to her, holding out the portrait and breaking her heart.

"Here, I'm sorry for…" Emma says, but seems at a loss for the rest of the sentence. "I hope your daughter comes back to you."

Snow takes the portrait numbly and Julia looks at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm no one," she replies in a voice barely above a whisper; it's as loud as she can speak without breaking. "Just shopping."

Emma shoots her an apologetic look before letting her daughter drag her off to look at cakes — birthday cakes, probably, because Emma was taken from her parents and never knew her exact birthday so she probably just picked a date that was roughly correct and now they're planning to celebrate her non-specific birthday and there isn't any place for parents — there isn't any place for _Snow_ — in her life.

She stands there for a long time, staring at the place they disappeared, holding the portrait.

She doesn't tell Charming about the encounter.

.

It's a little after dusk when Emma sees the green lantern floating up in the sky above the castle, and realizes where she remembers seeing that woman's face before.

"Are you all right?" Killian asks, coming up behind her and placing a hand on the small of her back.

All these years, her parents were lighting lanterns in the hope that she'd follow them home… but that's ridiculous. It was just a sad woman in the market who hadn't given up hope that her daughter was out there somewhere, and just because some (all) of the details match up doesn't mean anything.

There are a lot of Emmas around here.

"Yeah," she replies, and it's something of a lie. "Let's have this amazing cake before Julia loses her mind."

He laughs, they celebrate her maybe-birthday, and Emma dreams of a beautiful woman with black hair and a dashing man with a brilliant smile always directed at her.

.

It really isn't a good way to convince herself or anyone else that she's doing fine and not going mad, but that woman and her daughter won't stop haunting Snow, so she uses (abuses) her power to track her down, finally finding out that she's on a ship in the harbor at the moment; without hesitating or changing clothes or bothering to tell anyone where she's going, she jumps onto a horse and rides down to the wharf because maybe she's never really learned how to let things go.

She gets a lot of odd looks because today she isn't dressed down and _really_ looks the part, but the docks are so crowded that the net effect is invisibility; it's mostly a good thing.

(Maybe Emma won't recognize her as the queen.)

The horse sets her a bit apart from the crowd, although there are enough high- and middle-class merchants with carts and carriages lumbering about that she isn't completely out-of-place at a glance, but the dockworker she stops for directions still looks at her like she's got several heads, and is currently growing more.

"I'm looking for a brig," she says bluntly, and the man blinks.

"I'll need you to be more specific, milady," he replies carefully, as if worried to be honest with someone so obviously aristocratic.

Snow sucks in a deep, slightly embarrassed breath through her teeth. In retrospect, she wishes she had asked for more detail about this ship she's looking for. "It — _she_ has someone I'm looking for, that's all I know. A blonde woman, very pretty, green eyes, young daughter?"

The man's polite smile doesn't waver or become any more knowing. "Can't say I'm familiar with her. Is she a merchant? Soldier, civilian, pirate, maybe?"

"I don't know," she answers, wincing. "I don't think she's a merchant. Civilian, probably."

"Well, most of your passenger ships dock further down east this way," he explains, gesturing in that direction. "They might know who you're looking for, at least. My lady," he adds hastily, but she hadn't even noticed the vague disrespect.

"Thank you," she says shortly, and almost rides off before she remembers how manners work on this side of town and tosses him a coin without bothering to see his reaction or even what specific kind of coin she just threw at him.

East, to the passenger ships — would she be docking or disembarking? Probably disembarking, Snow thinks, since she was in the market yesterday, which would place her leaving at first light tomorrow; she has to find her tonight.

She has to _know._

She's fairly sure that she isn't passing any brigs — although her knowledge of ship classes leaves a great many things to be desired — as she rides down the east road that hugs the docks, eyes so focused on the water that she's ignoring the people in front of her — she's on a horse, they can go around — and wondering exactly where the line between "merchant docks" and "passenger docks" is, and how to tell the difference.

It's a bit humiliating, and a lot frustrating, and so when she stops to ask directions a second time, it comes out in more of a growl than a polite query.

"Excuse me," she says sharply, catching a sailor off-guard; the fear in his eyes heavily suggests that his ship is involved in illicit activities, but at the moment, she doesn't care. "I'm looking for a woman, can you help me?"

"I… dunno?" he replies, in a thick accent. "Maybe?"

She pulls out a silver coin and holds it up, a taunt and a promise. "Her name is Emma. She's blonde and has a young daughter."

"Lots o' girls named Emma 'round these parts," the sailor answers, eyeing the coin as she palms it again, and starts to say, "You might wanna — " but she isn't paying attention to him anymore — at the description, a young woman passing by turned sharply toward her.

"You know who I'm talking about," she says, leaping off her horse to catch her before she bolts, and barely succeeds. "Please, I need to find her."

"Listen, lady, I have no idea who you are or what you want," the girl replies through gritted teeth, tugging subtly at her arm.

"I don't mean any harm," she explains hastily, and her voice raises an unwilling octave as she does, torn between fear that the girl will break free and run and a belligerent hope that tightens her fingers on her arm. "I just need to find her — _please."_

The last word seems to have gotten to the girl: her expression becomes a little less horrified and a little more compassionate, although she still looks unsettled. "I know someone who fits that description," she replies reluctantly. "Why are you looking for her?"

This brings Snow up uncomfortably short; what is she supposed to say? _I met her in the market yesterday and now I've become convinced that she's my long-lost daughter and I need to find her and convince her too but I also can't alienate her before she can come back to me and I can't let her go?_

"I met her in the market yesterday," she settles on. "She dropped something, I'm trying to return it. It seemed valuable," she adds, as a quick explanation for why this would matter at all.

"Well, you can give it to me," the girl replies, and Snow curses internally. "I'll make sure she gets it."

"I… wanted to ask her about it," she says desperately, and it's so obvious it hurts. The girl isn't even sort of fooled.

"Yeah, I'm not buying that," she deadpans, and tugs her arm again. "Please let go," she says evenly, in a tone of voice that suggests she can — and will — force Snow to do so if she doesn't comply.

She starts to panic a little bit — if she had paused and thought more rationally about this before coming, maybe she wouldn't be alienating her only chance to see Emma again — but is saved by the woman herself.

"Ruby, _there_ you are. Victor's been — " she starts, trailing off when her eyes land on Snow, who hastily drops this Ruby's arm, suddenly deeply uncomfortable. This must look terrible, she must be _so_ regretting her decision to make small talk with the crazy woman at the other stall. But her expression comes over a different sort of odd. "You again," she says bluntly, and Snow blinks.

"Yeah," she replies, wincing, "me again. I'm sorry, I know how I must look to you, but…" she trails off when she can't come up with an excuse or explanation.

"Emma, who is this?" Ruby whispers, and Emma looks between the two of them.

"I met her in the market," she answers. "It's all right, don't worry about me. Vic has been looking everywhere for you, something about a dinner obligation?"

Ruby gasps. "Oh, crap, I completely forgot," she winces, but looks back to Snow before moving. "You're sure it's okay? I can hang around if…"

"No, it's fine," Emma says, and something rekindles inside her — if she hasn't been thinking about it, about their conversation, if she hasn't been asking herself if maybe it isn't true after all, she would be running in the opposite direction, or at least not agreeing to be alone with the obsessive lunatic from the other day. "Really." When Ruby finally, reluctantly, leaves, she turns back to Snow. "Want a drink?"

"Absolutely," she replies immediately, and suppresses a wince at the eagerness of her tone. She feels so pathetic; if this woman isn't really her Emma, she might just die from disappointment, and she can't do this to herself, she shouldn't be giving herself so much false hope.

But she does it anyway, following Emma (who gives her horse, and then Snow, an odd look like she's wondering who the hell this woman really is) to a tavern a couple of blocks from the water. "I'm pretty sure they have a stable around this way," she muses, but uncertainly; she doubts Emma has ever had any need for such a thing.

"Right, thank you," she says, resisting the urge to grab Emma by the arm to prevent her from running away the moment her back is turned. It ends up being unnecessary —she goes with her to the stable and stands awkwardly at the door while she talks to the boy about taking care of her horse and pays him to do so. When she's finished and meets her back at the doorway, they stand in strained silence for a moment.

"Right," Emma says lamely, and runs a hand through her hair. "Let's go inside, it's getting cold."

"Of course."

The tavern is nice and loud and warm; the sun is only now beginning to set, the tables are weighted down with food and ale and wine, woodsmoke blurs the air and mutes the conversations into a dull, indistinct roar, and they find a semi-secluded table near the fire and order a carafe of wine.

"I already ate," Emma apologizes, and Snow hasn't but she doesn't care either, so she just smiles.

"It's fine, wine is fine."

_Gods,_ she sounds like such a fool.

The awkward silence doesn't end until the wine arrives and they've both taken a good two large gulps from their own glasses. "I'm sorry," Snow sighs. "I don't mean to be… obsessive, but…"

"It's all right," Emma says around another sip. "If it was my daughter I was looking for, I'd probably be acting just like you." She looks around for a moment as though hoping a wild conversation will fly by and make the atmosphere less horribly uncomfortable, and finally seems to have some luck. "Who are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Oh, gods, she never even told her her _name._ "Oh, I'm sorry — " _stop saying that_ " — I'm Snow. Snow White. The 'white' part is unnecessary, though."

Emma smiles, amused, but doesn't recognize that she's the queen, and she's glad for it. "Snow White? Lemme guess, you were born in winter?"

"Early spring, actually," she replies drolly, raising an eyebrow and smirking. "But it was apparently a terrible winter."

She snickers. "Maybe if my next kid is born after a typhoon I'll name it Stormy," she drawls, and Snow can't help but laugh.

"I know, it's a… unique name," she concedes, and resists the urge to ask about the 'next kid' bit. "But it's a fine tradition, I can't see why everyone doesn't follow it. When we could have Stormy and Sunny and Slushy, I don't know why we give our children such blase names like Emma and Julia."

Emma laughs at that, and Snow glows inside; a much more amicable silence falls. Finally, Snow sighs.

"I really don't mean to come off like a… lunatic, or anything," she says quietly. "I know, I'm just this strange, sad, delusional woman you're probably regretting ever talking to, and… I'm not asking anything of you, I'm really not, but…" She glances away and takes a deep breath. "I _want_ you to be my Emma, I _really_ do. Not just because it would mean I'd found her, but… you're _happy,"_ she explains, voice cracking. "You have a family and friends, you seem to be well-off enough… I _can't_ believe that my daughter is dead, and I don't _want_ to believe that she's miserable, do you understand?"

It takes her a moment to respond, during which Snow can't look at her; she feels so pathetic, but maybe another mother can empathize with her even when she sounds creepy like this.

"You want me to lie to you," she infers, and Snow bites her tongue.

"I want it to be the truth," she says bluntly, "but if it isn't, then… yes." She takes a deep breath and finally looks across the table again; Emma hasn't run yet, at least. "But… are you absolutely sure? How?"

Emma looks away this time, and sighs heavily, finishing her glass and pouring herself another before answering. "Do you have any idea… _Every_ abandoned child wishes their parents would show up out of the blue someday," she explains reluctantly, "with stories about how they were taken away from them and they loved them and always wanted them… I dreamed about it, Killian dreamed about it, _everyone_ dreams about that. But it doesn't happen."

"But it did to one girl," Snow cuts in fervently, because that's _such_ a thin reason, she had thought it would be something so much more concrete like a locket with a portrait of her parents or something but if the only reason she thinks it isn't true is because it's never happened to anyone she knows… "It happened to one girl. Why can't it be you?"

"I'm not that special," she snaps, and Snow frowns.

"You are to someone," she replies quietly. "More than one person, right? Your husband and daughter, at least."

"That's different. I meant, I'm not someone's long-lost baby girl they've been dreaming of for twenty-three years."

"Why can't you be?" she asks, and goes on hastily because she can see the frustration all over Emma's face. "You don't have any memories of your parents? Any at all? Maybe a dream?"

If she sounds desperate, it's because she is; but Emma opens her mouth to speak — something clearly biting and negative, judging from her expression — but then closes it again and glances away, hesitating.

She was so young, any memory she might have would be fuzzy at best, enough to be disconcerting but not enough to convince herself. The look on her face…

But then — "No," she answers finally, draining her glass and standing up to leave, clearly done with this conversation and even more done with Snow.

She stands hastily, hands up in supplication. "I'm sorry, I really am, I don't mean to — "

"Will you stop apologizing?" Emma snaps, and Snow winces in spite of herself. "Look, I get it, your daughter was kidnapped and I understand how you feel, but it doesn't have anything to do with — "

"Snow!"

It's either perfect timing or the absolute worst possible timing; Charming is coming toward them, looking worried as hell. "Charming," she winces. "Hi."

"I've been looking _everywhere_ for you, what's going on?" he asks, deeply concerned, and places a hand on her shoulder. "The stablehand said you just grabbed a horse and vanished."

"Oh, I…" she starts, but isn't sure how to explain. She glances to the place where Emma should have been, only to find that she's still there, staring at Snow's husband, color draining from her face. "I was just having a drink with…" She doesn't want to say _Emma_ and get his hopes up but she doesn't have any other description… but the way she's looking at him —

The way she's looking at him like she's seeing a specter from a dream.

He turns to her and pauses just like Snow paused yesterday, and Emma reaches out to him, hand hovering over his chin. "Smile," she says faintly, and tears spring to Snow's eyes.

Charming was always smiling at Emma, like they had some inside joke or secret, and the scar on his chin gives him such a distinctive smile.

She's right.

She's _right._

_She's right._

"…with Emma," she finishes in a whisper.

.

"Wait, _what?"_ Killian asks incredulously, and she runs her hands through her hair.

"My parents," she gasps, looking around as though the answers to the questions she can't even fully comprehend will spring up from the floor. "My — my _parents._ Are the king and queen. And they're here. I — what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Here," he repeats bluntly. "As in, 'in this city' or 'on the deck'?

"In the castle," she replies, sinking onto the nearest seat-shaped object. "I just — ran into this woman at the market yesterday and she thought I — I mean, we _do_ look alike, but I thought… it's not like you and Julia, it's not _that_ obvious… but she… really believed it."

"How do you know?"

She sighs. "You remember that dream I told you about?"

"It wasn't a dream," he infers, nodding and running a hand over his face. "What do y — what do they want you to do?"

"Have dinner with them tonight," she answers, and looks up at him; his expression is oddly closed. "All three of us."

He raises an eyebrow and mutters, "I don't foresee that going particularly well for me."

Emma laughs at that, although it's a little desperate. "That might just be the most self-aware thing I've ever heard you say."

.

Killian, in spite of every vaguely sincere attempt to clean up his look or properly shave, can never quite hide the aura of "rogue" that's always enveloped him, but he does concede to a white shirt and red vest (which makes Emma uncomfortable for a number of reasons, beginning with how odd he looks in white and red and ending with how _good_ he looks in white and red).

Julia is much easier to handle, because Julia has decided — even before all of this — that she wants to be the queen of the pirate lords and insists upon dressing accordingly, so the only trouble is convincing her to favor the "queen" part and leave her toy sword behind (which she ultimately has to be bribed into doing, because "what if they attack and nobody else can defend us?").

Emma is a different matter entirely, not just because it's her parents and she honestly can't remember the last time she wore a dress, but also because it's much easier to forgive a man for looking a bit dangerous — particularly if he's a man who's sworn to cherish and defend her (even if there aren't any official documents on the matter) — but princesses are supposed to be demure, aren't they? And dress all… fluffy.

She has never in her life dressed in anything involving taffeta or a pannier and, in fact, isn't even sure what those even are.

Gods, she thinks, looking through the wardrobe, what the hell do you even wear to a dinner with your long-lost-recently-found-oh-by-the-way-also-royal parents?

"Well, you can only hide the truth for so long, love," Killian says, shrugging and lounging in his chair like usual, and it's only because Emma knows him so well that she sees how high-strung he is at the moment; is he really _that_ nervous about this? "May as well be straight with them."

"I like this one," Julia declares, holding up a somewhat scandalous red number that only flirts with the word "appropriate." (She makes a mental note to discuss her daughter's disconcerting taste in fashion with Killian later.)

"It _would_ make an impression," Killian drawls, barely controlling a snicker. "And we'd match."

"You aren't funny," she grumbles, but there isn't anything better on-hand, and so the red dress it is.

.

The king — whose name is James, except "it's actually David, long story, evil adoptive father, long-lost twins, you get the idea" — takes an immediate and mutual adoring to Julia, not unlike Killian's first experience meeting her, but seems wary of the man himself, to the surprise of exactly no one. And maybe it's because Killian has only known his daughter for a year, but he seems disgruntled by how well (and how quickly) she gets along with her grandfather.

"Didn't she decide she loved you more than anything after knowing you for five minutes?" Emma challenges quietly, and he concedes the point with a jealous and unwilling _hmph._

This castle is bigger than the count's was, and furnished better, and Killian has to physically grab Julia and make her hold his hand so she doesn't bolt off to explore (which Snow finds endearing and David finds annoying, although that might be because he wants to be the one holding her hand).

She pouts the whole way into the dining hall, but forgets about it entirely when she sees the table.

Emma is _positive_ they don't usually keep it this fancied-up — no doubt they've gone all-out to welcome her here — but the effect is overwhelming: a large, glittering crystal chandelier, silver tableware, enough food to feed an entire… everyone who is already seated at the table.

Either the king and queen have been _really_ busy in the last twenty-three years, or they just _really_ like electing people to their court; at least thirty people are there, and they all stand when she walks in, and she almost runs away because _no._

Julia, on the other hand, seems to find it perfectly fitting that they respect her position as Pirate Queen.

Oddly enough, though, this gives her some kind of solace; at least one of them is comfortable here — although a quick glance at Killian sees him looking, if not _in_ his element, then at least not _out_ of it, and she thinks of the day she met him. He glances at her and shrugs as if to say, hey, what can you do?

_I can run in the opposite goddamn direction_, she thinks. That's_ what I can do._

"I know this is a bit… overwhelming," Snow says in the biggest understatement she's heard since 'he'll be back in no time', taking her arm and guiding her to an empty seat at the near end, "but you'll get — I mean, it's not as scary at it looks. They're all family, or may as well be."

_You'll get used to i_t, that's what she was about to say; they all know it, and Killian stiffens almost imperceptibly.

The dinner itself goes well enough, with enough polite small talk and vague introductions — and enough of David having to explain to Julia what, exactly, she's putting on her plate — to keep things light, if tense; Killian doesn't talk much.

It starts to go downhill when the food has been eaten and the desserts are served and the conversation goes exactly where it's been inching toward since she met with Snow in that tavern:

"So, tell us about yourself," Snow says, with both eagerness and trepidation, and she blinks, glancing sideways at Killian.

"Um," is all she can get out before Julia answers for them:

"Mom stole an apple!" she replies, grinning, because she thinks it's the best and most romantic thing she's ever heard, but Emma just wants to hide; there's the first secret she didn't want them to know (her life as a thief on the streets) that's out of the bag. "And Dad saved her from it."

David blinks and Snow tilts her head in polite confusion, leaving Emma to clarify. "She means the consequences of the stealing. It wasn't some demonic, man-eating apple."

"Yeah, and he took her in with his crew," Julia goes on, and Killian buries his face in his palm.

"We need to teach you how to tell a story, love," he says quietly, and she glances at him, completely unfazed.

"But that's the best part," she replies, genuinely confused as to why that's not necessarily a good thing.

"You're supposed to start at the beginning."

"But the beginning is sad."

"Okay," Emma announces abruptly, "dinner has been _great,_ maybe we should move this conversation somewhere else and maybe it's past someone's bedtime."

"You said I could stay up an extra half-hour if I left my sword at home!" she cries in a rush, and Emma almost misses Killian's exasperated clarification to her parents of _toy sword,_ toy _sword._

"Yeah, except you didn't," she counters, reaching over and snatching the little wooden sword from Julia's boot, where she must have thought she had been very clever to hide it; she looks absolutely _devastated._

"How'd you know?" she pouts, but Snow answers before she can.

"Everybody hides weapons in their boots, sweetie," she replies in a slightly strained voice, resting her chin on her fist. "It's the first place someone'll look."

"Seriously?" Emma asks, both taken completely off-guard and a little annoyed. Snow shrugs.

"What? It's sound advice."

She blinks.

Who the hell _are_ these people?

.

She did not think the 'calling in Julia's bedtime' thing all the way through — what the hell was she planning to do, leave her daughter in some strange room in some strange place? — which causes some awkward maneuvering before it's finally decided that David will escort her back to the ship, where Ruby will take care of her.

This buys her some time — although not as much as she might have hoped, given the proximity of the harbor to the castle — to come up with some kind of parent-friendly version of her life story and coordinate it with Killian through meaningful glances and shrugs.

She has a lot of trouble on that front.

.

Snow can't stop fidgeting.

She wishes her granddaughter hadn't had to leave so early (although she understands — the girl is seven, after all, and it's getting late), because she only had one other child, a son, and never had the chance to spend time with her own little girl… but then, if all she knows about Emma's story is that the beginning is sad, it's probably for the best that she not be around for the whole thing.

If Emma is even going to tell her the whole thing; family or no, they're still strangers.

And worse, she won't be staying.

She almost slipped up and assumed that Emma would, of course, choose to stay with her long-lost parents, but that's… Emma has her own life, and this isn't it.

Maybe they could all stay? David would get over his protective instinct and stop glaring at Emma's husband (they are married, right? She doesn't wear a ring, but they certainly act like it) and — Julia would love it, obviously, she's at just the perfect age to be told she's a princess —

But Emma looks _so_ uncomfortable; Killian looks more at-ease in this setting than she does, although he may simply be hiding it better.

(She isn't sure how she feels about him yet. He's very charming and witty, which can be lovely or dangerous; his appearance suggests the latter, but his interaction with Julia and Emma suggests the former and she doesn't really know how much of her reservation is based on the fact that it's Emma — _her baby girl_ — he's with.)

"So…" she starts, looking around the drawing room where they've relocated; Killian is watching Emma, seated stiffly on the edge of the chair, out of the corner of his eye. He almost looks afraid. "What brings you here? I mean, what attracted you to our lovely city?"

"We took some damage in a storm," Emma answers tightly, running a hand through her hair and wincing as though this is somehow a poor answer. "This was the nearest port."

"Needed supplies, anyway," Killian chimes in, and then, in a lighter voice, "as well as cake. One of the great regrets of my life is telling Julia that there is more than one variety of cake."

It eases the mood somewhat; Emma laughs and relaxes a little, to Snow's relief.

"She has a sweet tooth, I take it?"

"That's like saying a typhoon is kind of windy," Emma replies in a drawl, and shoots Killian a sideways glare. "And isn't helped by _someone_ always giving her candy."

"Oh, I'm aware," he declares, lightning-fast, and turns purposefully to Snow, "my lady the queen should show more restraint. It's a terrible habit, she shouldn't enable it."

Snow chokes on her wine and there's a tense half-second where Grumpy is prepared to come to her defense — because how _dare_ this strange man speak to a queen like this — but then she starts laughing and the tension passes. Maybe it's not the funniest or most proper joke ever, but it shatters the uncomfortable atmosphere, and she could almost hug him for it.

Emma, if possible, looks even more relieved than Snow feels, and elbows him in the ribs even as she laughs.

.

In the end, the story she gives them is only the barest of bones; she emphasizes the "church" part of her childhood more than the "brothel" part (even though the church had much, much less to do with her), downplays the amount of thieving that went into their survival, and completely leaves out Killian's arrest and its aftermath, implying that he's been here from the start.

If it bothers him, he doesn't show it… but then, he wouldn't.

He _is_ distant when they get back to the ship, and it unsettles her — he was fine in the drawing room, interjecting with some light joke every time the conversation threatened to go in directions she really didn't want it to go, which, while transparent, was greatly appreciated by everyone. She thought he was just uncomfortable with her parents at the start, warming up to them and the situation as the night wore on, but now…

"I'm sorry," she says in a low voice, and he raises an eyebrow. "For… leaving so much out. I just didn't want them to… you know…"

"No, that was for the best, I suppose," he replies with a dismissive shrug. "Nothing to apologize for."

"So what's wrong?"

He hesitates; it gives him away. "Nothing," he answers easily, and starts to go on with some excuse, but she cuts him off.

"You're lying. You've been tense all night."

It's a long moment before he answers, and he doesn't look at her when he does. "Nice place they have, your parents," he says ambiguously, idly reorganizing the desk. "Nice people too, simply _overwhelmed_ with joy at your return."

"Is this… are you jealous?" she asks incredulously, because Killian has (with only one exception) never mentioned or referenced his own parents. "I know it's bizarre, and — _really_ rare, but…"

"This has nothing to do with them," he cuts in, voice carefully even, but still without looking at her.

She's about to ask him why the hell he brought them up then, but it clicks suddenly — his discomfort with the whole situation, his unwillingness to let David hold Julia's hand, the way he stiffened when Snow made that comment about Emma getting used to it, _nice place they have_…

"I'm not staying with them, Killian," she says slowly. "We can just... visit whenever we're here."

"Hmm," is his only response for a moment. "She liked it there, with them," he goes on, still in that careful voice, like he isn't sure he won't scream if he lets any emotion at all slip out. "Wouldn't want for anything."

"She _already_ doesn't want for anything," Emma snaps. "And she doesn't like it there more than she loves it _here._ With _you."_

She wants to shake him for the self-doubt at the same time that she — unwillingly — understands it.

After all, she's chosen stability for Julia over (waiting for) him before.

"It's a stable home, with her real family," he continues, voice dropping, and he finally looks to her, expression unreadable; maybe afraid, maybe wounded, maybe bitter. "Perfect environment for a young girl."

_"Please,"_ she says dismissively, waving a hand. "If there's anything I've learned from you, it's that blood doesn't define family." He starts to say something else, but she steps forward and crosses her arms. "No, stop it, we're not going anywhere. Gods," she mutters, almost as an afterthought, "I'd have to enlist a whole _army_ to pry her away from you, you're her _hero."_

For a moment, the atmosphere between them remains tense as he searches her face for something, some hint of dishonesty; finally, after what seems like forever, he relaxes, and then winces. "In that case, we should discuss the definition of 'hero' with her."

"I _am_ beginning to worry about her worldview," Emma admits, gesturing to her dress. "She picked this out, after all."

"Well, it does look good on you, I must say," he murmurs, sliding a hand around her waist and pulling her closer.

"That's part of what concerns me," she replies. "If she shares _your_ fashion sense, we're gonna have a _lot_ of trouble in a few years."

He pauses, as though the thought has just occurred to him. "Oh, that won't _do."_

She laughs at the look of extreme discomfort on his face, and steps closer, running her hands down his chest. "We'll worry about that later. Right now… there are more important things on my mind."

"Oh?" he replies, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yeah, you," she murmurs, leaning up to his ear and undoing the first button on his vest, "should wear red more often."

He smirks and pulls her a little closer to him, and if his fingers are a little tighter on her hip than usual, if his kisses a little more intense, she pretends not to notice.


End file.
